


Beautiful oblivion

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse 2.0 [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Cringe, Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, I know, Illness and Injury, Intrusive Thoughts, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mission Fic, OCD, Sickfic, Spider-Man: Prom, Very dark content, Vomiting, also slightly AU, but I swear it works, dad tony, lots of trigger warnings, mixing canons, mostly compliant with Spider-Man: Homecoming, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Peter doesn't go in with the intention of ruining his life.  He just wants to impress Mr. Stark.  Have fun with is friends.  Go to the prom with a cute boy.  And maybe lose a few pounds.He doesn't mean for everything to fall apart.  That happens naturally.





	1. If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. Here we go. A novella for Spider-Man (and I’m going to finally start using correct capitalization and punctuation for the word Spider-Man— what an idea, I know). 
> 
> This is a fill for so many prompts I’m starting to lose track. Basically, if you recognize a prompt you sent, there you go. This is for you. Thank you so much for engaging with me, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Many thanks to wiseinnerwhispers for being my beta. They are truly a fantastic individual. Thank you for putting up with me, encouraging me to no end, and helping me get this story into shape.
> 
> Thank you to @sugar-me-sick for the wonderful original artwork in Chapter 13. Look for them on Tumblr as @samghoulie for more awesome art.
> 
> A few things need to be addressed before we jump into it. 
> 
> First, I need to issue the biggest trigger warning of all time. I tried to capture most of them in the tags, but here’s another non-exhaustive list: 
> 
> • Eating disorders, including restricting, self-induced vomiting, body dysmorphia, food-related anxiety, and mentions of therapy/hospitals (these are NOT actual factors in the story)  
> • Lots of gross (nothing overly graphic, but there are descriptions of blood, vomit, and other factors of illness/injury)  
> • Mental health issues, including general anxiety, negative self-talk, OCD (including mild self-harming compulsions), intrusive thoughts, depression, and mentions of suicidal thoughts  
> • Physical whump, including injury, illness, and natural vomiting  
> • Canon-typical violence, including death (of a bystander, NOT a canon character),  
> • Cursing/foul language (including lots of f-bombs and one gay slur)  
> • Very tiny reference to drugs (included in a reference to our main character NOT doing drugs)
> 
> I know it’s also a little touchy to work with a character under 18 in a context like this, but I’m playing the risk. I imagined this potentially happening during the same school year as Spider-Man: Homecoming. If you’re more comfortable with it happening 2 years later during senior year with Peter at age 18, don’t hesitate to go there. Exact ages are not relevant to the story. Stuff like this happens to people whether they’re 15 or 18 or 25 or 105.
> 
> Keep yourself safe! I knew going in this was going to be a tough one. Feel free to get in touch if you need to discuss specific triggers. Find me on Tumblr @builder051 or @my-wayward-son. 
> 
> This story is not meant to glorify or promote eating disorders or other mental health struggles. I write about these things because they are real and should be spoken about honestly and openly. I do my best to portray characters’ issues in a realistic manner, but not every experience will be similar to (or even bear any resemblance to) this one. If you are struggling, please reach out for help. You’re welcome to send me a message on Tumblr. In the US, the National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) hotline is 1-800-931-2237.
> 
> This story is not related to my other Spider-Man works, which is why it’s showing up in a new series (Spiderverse 2.0). Events that happen here won’t be referenced in one-shots in the other series, and nothing from the other series will be referenced in here. I’ve borrowed a few characters from the larger Spider-Man canon and inserted them in this work even though they aren’t part of Spider-Man: Homecoming. I hope that doesn’t bug too much. 
> 
> This story is relatively compliant with Spider-Man: Homecoming, but it goes in quite a different direction. ASSUME AUNT MAY DOES NOT KNOW PETER IS SPIDER-MAN. That’s important. 
> 
> I also didn’t write Karen, the AI in Peter’s suit. We’ll assume she doesn’t exist for this one, or at least that Peter has her turned off. This project is largely about Peter’s inner thoughts. It’s better for the story for him to be truly by himself in his suit.
> 
> On a less important note, I’m assuming Midtown Tech is one of those schools where all students are allowed to attend prom, not just upperclassmen (my high school was, so that’s what I know). Again, it doesn’t matter what year Peter is in.
> 
> Oh, and the accompanying playlist is listed as a separate work in this series, if you’re interested.
> 
> Aight. Read. Enjoy (?). Comment. Be inspired.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter cleans magazines

Peter grips the ledge of his window with one hand and forces it open with the other.  The thin-soled boots of his Spider-Man suit skid against the outside of the building as he lifts himself inside.  Peter does a forward roll across the carpet to complete his entrance. His backpack clunks awkwardly, then cushions him as he lands on his back.  The algebra book digging into his spine reminds of the homework he has to do.

Peter sighs as he flops onto his side and shrugs off his bag.  He changes clothes quickly. May’s not due to be home from work for another couple hours, but wearing the suit in the apartment has become off-limits in his head.  As have a handful of other things. 

Peter’s stomach rumbles as he pulls an oversized sweatshirt over his head.  He falls into his desk chair and unloads his school things, but he doesn’t open his books yet.  Homework will happen. Eventually. So will food. But there’s something else in his bag he needs to get to first.

He pulls the magazines out with the tips of his fingers.  They’re abandoned periodicals he found while out on patrol, mostly taken from recycling bins.  Recycling is cleaner than trash, but things pulled from it still need disinfecting.

Peter spreads the haul out over his desk.  It’s an odd mix today.  _ Shape. _ _ Seventeen _ .   _ Men’s Health _ .  But no weirder than the stash overloading the bottom drawer of his desk.  Peter’s eager to flip through them, but he has to stick to the routine. He gets the container of Lysol wipes from under the kitchen sink and sets to work.

Peter passes the cleaning cloths over the crisp magazine pages as gently as he can.  The ink smudges in places, which makes the articles harder to read. But it’s better than the pages harboring other people’s germs and food stains and garbage odors.

He starts with  _ Shape _ , wiping down the shiny cover and opening to the first page.  The issue is 10 months old and rife with pictures of women in athletic swimwear.  Peter sighs and tries to clean faster.

 

_ Come on, where are the articles?  Where’s the good stuff? _

At the end, of course.  Almost 70 pages of bikinis and celebrity interviews have to be wiped before he comes to the section on nutrition.   _ Prioritize proteins, fill up on fiber _ …  Peter scoffs at the titles of the stories. 

How incredibly basic _.   _

 

_ Aren’t these articles supposed to provide a little more than common knowledge?  What a waste of time. _

But then Peter reminds himself that he’s become a connoisseur of such facts lately.  It might not be common knowledge after all. What would May think of an article like that, for instance?  He doesn’t have an answer. Maybe he should ask. 

_ No, no, what are you thinking?  Ask May? _

 

Peter shakes his head, still berating himself as he finishes cleaning the last few pages. 

He throws  _ Shape _ on the floor to dry and starts on  _ Men’s Health. _  It’s another old issue, and Ryan Lochte scowls up from the cover.  Text over the athlete’s head teases an article about Olympians’ training secrets. 

This one will probably be a bust as well.  The training part isn’t what Peter needs help with.  Running and webbing around Queens at least 20 hours a week serves as pretty good exercise.  It burns calories. The enhanced metabolism helps, too. Peter wishes he knew more about that, but the effects of radioactive spider bites on teen boys aren’t things you can look up online or in magazines. 

It’s diet he’s most curious about.  Google had bottomed out somewhere between weight loss and muscle gain, which is why Peter had turned to print media.  He doesn’t need to drastically slim down, and he doesn’t want to blow up like Captain America. He wants to be… Peter isn’t sure how to describe it, even to himself. 

Sleeker, he decides.  

 

_ How much faster could you be with a little less baby fat and a little more muscle?  Would you be stronger? Would your abs stand out more? _

 

It would be easier to just ask someone.  Natasha, maybe. Or Clint. Peter sees them around the Avengers compound on occasion.  They could probably have a nice conference about the nutritional needs of fully-human, minimally enhanced superheroes.  

 

But Nat’s intimidating, and Clint seems to spend every free minute FaceTiming his own kids.  He doesn’t have time for some weird kid from Brooklyn. Not that Peter’s ever tried approaching him.  He’s too scared. It’s too awkward and private to talk about his body. 

Peter pulls a fresh Lysol wipe from the container and dabs at a full-page ad for Nike performance gear.  The model is shown mid-stride, his quads bulging, the curve of taught glutes visible through his shorts.

Before he knows it, the page is soaked through with lemony cleaning fluid.  “Fuck,” Peter mumbles. He’s passed the cleaning wipe over the print one too many times.  He hurriedly turns the page and swipes over another couple ads, trying not to look at them.  He’s barely to the first article when he hears a key scrape in the lock of the apartment’s front door. 

There’s no time to put the cleaning wipes away before May makes it inside, so Peter slams the container shut and tosses it into a pile of clothes behind his door.  He should really keep them in his room since he’s fairly sure he uses them more than May does. 

 

He deems the clean copy of  _ Shape _ dry enough and stashes it in the drawer with the rest of his collection.  Then he finally opens his math textbook on top of the magazine in progress. 

School books make a good buffer between clean and dirty.  Peter knows they’re covered in germs, but they’re also his, at least for the duration of the year.  It makes them somewhat less distasteful. 

May knocks on Peter’s bedroom door as he digs out a pencil.  “Hey,” she says before rattling the doorknob. “You’re not locking me out, right?”

“No,” Peter says.  “You can come in.”

May opens the door a crack.  “You decent?”

“Yes.  Geez, May.”

She swings the door all the way open.  “And doing homework. I don’t know why I worry.”

Peter shrugs and pretends to be writing down a problem from his assignment.

“Well, I was going to ask you what you wanted for dinner,” May says.  “But…is that  _ Seventeen _ ?”  She points to the crumpled magazine on the desk. 

Peter realizes too late that he forgot to do something with it.  

 

_ Stupid.  Stupid!  _

 

“Uh, yeah.”  He glances around uncomfortably, trying to think up an excuse.  “It’s, um, a thing for Spanish. Like a collage with all the vocabulary words…”

“Do you need some more magazines to cut up?” May asks.  “I have some old copies of  _ Prevention _ .  Maybe some  _ US Weekly _ ?”

“Naw, I’m good,” Peter replies.  Hopefully, if he doesn’t involve her, May will forget she ever saw such a periodical in his room…

“Ok.  But the offer’s open, if you need them.”

“No, no, I said I’m good.”  Peter taps his pencil against the edge of his book, each hit echoing in his brain.  

 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… _

“Alright, alright,” May concedes.  “Now what do you want to eat?”

Peter’s starving.  He has been since he came in from patrol, but snacking is another thing he’s listing as off-limits.  “What are my choices?”

“There’s leftovers from the turkey meatloaf,” May offers.  “But I know when my cooking isn’t a hit, so pizza is a valid alternative.  I have coupons.”

Peter does the math in his head.  Pizza wins for flavor, but not for calories.  Turkey is lean, protein-rich. It’ll keep him full.  He doesn’t know if May used breadcrumbs in it or not, but even if she did, it still probably rates as low-carb.  And low-gluten. He read somewhere that gluten causes bloating. So does dairy. 

 

_ Pizza’s bad.  You’re never having Pizza again. _

“Is that really such a hard question?” May asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh.”  He’s been sitting still too long.  “Um. Meatloaf would be ok.”

“You sure?  You don’t have to flatter me.”  May makes a face. “I’m not sure I like it that much.”

“I mean, if we have it, we should probably eat it,” Peter says with a shrug. 

“Alright…”  May looks suspicious.  “And if I made, say, Brussel sprouts to go with it, would that be ok too?”

“Yeah.”  Peter looks back down at his textbook.

“Ok, this is getting weird.  We don’t have Brussel sprouts.  But what’s getting into you? Are you getting brainwashed in health class?  I thought that nutrition unit was over with. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“Yeah.  I mean...I don’t know,” Peter says.  “Come on, are you really questioning why I’m ok with healthy food?” 

“Alright, alright, I should be grateful you’re such an easygoing kid.”  May finally smiles. “For real this time. Potatoes or corn?”

Neither is a vegetable, but at least corn is a whole grain.  Though there’s something to be said for the vitamin content in potato skins…  That’s assuming skin-on, though, which is doubtful in the frozen variety. So much for low-carb.

“What do you want to eat?  It shouldn’t be that complicated.”

“Corn,” Peter says quickly.  “Yeah. Corn.”

“Ok.”  May’s voice goes up, like she wants to say something else but stops herself.  She turns to leave, then pauses. “Something wouldn’t happen to be bothering you, would it?”

_ No, no, no, she’s getting suspicious now, you can’t do shit like that…   _

 

“Nope.”  

“Yeah, of course not.”  May smiles again. “What am I thinking, asking a teenage boy?  Food in 15 minutes, ok?”

“Yeah.  Thanks, May.”

 

She doesn’t shut the door all the way as she leaves, but her footsteps retreat to the kitchen, and Peter knows he’s as alone as he’s going to be for the rest of the night.  He slouches in his desk chair and tips his head back. 

 

_ You’re stupid. _

 

He blinks up at the ceiling.  

 

_ Get a grip.  Get a grip. _

 

Peter wants to finish going through the magazine under his book.  His hands practically itch for the cool dampness of the Lysol wipes and the crispness of the printed pages.  But there’s not enough time. He’ll just be more frustrated if the task gets interrupted again. He slams his fists down on his knees.  

 

There’s probably nothing useful in that issue anyway.  Peter intertwines his fingers and digs his nails into the back of his hands.  It doesn’t hurt. Not really. 

 

_ Just calm the fuck down.  You’re fine. _

***

“Alright, here you go,” May says, plunking down a plate and a bottle of ketchup.  “If you don’t like it, that’s on you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Peter replies, picking up his fork. 

May returns to the kitchen to get her own food, and Peter takes the opportunity to investigate what he’s been served.  There’s meatloaf, as expected. It’s dry and maybe a little burned, but that’s beside the point. Then a heaping pile of yellow corn, drenched in butter and salt if the scent is anything to go by.  

 

_ Three-quarters of the world’s population is lactose intolerant in adulthood.  Sodium causes water retention. Eat salt and dairy if you want to look fat. _

 

But on the other hand, he’s been doing so well subbing out his typical fare of toaster pastries and processed sandwiches for better choices.  This morning’s hard-boiled eggs have to count for something. 

 

_ One bit of dairy and a grain of salt isn’t going to do you in. _

 

He’s not sensitive to any foods as far as he knows.  Peter drills it into his head. The avoidance is preventative.  To help him be in his best shape for missions. 

 

_ Which could come at any fucking time, so you shouldn’t have anything unclean at all! _

Peter takes a breath to calm himself and takes a bite of his food _.   _

 

_ Fine.  It’s fine.  May’s coming and you have to be fine. _

“Good?” she asks.  “Need anything else?”

“I’m alright.”  He chews and swallows.  

 

_ See, it’s fine _ . 

 

As long as he keeps it to little changes, everything’s ok.  May won’t worry. It’s not like he’s doing something wrong, anyway.  He’s not going off the deep end.

 

May sits down and tucks in to her plate.  She pokes at her meatloaf with her fork and makes a face at Peter.  “I promise I’ll never try to make this again.”

 

“It’s not that bad,” Peter assures her.  

 

May squeezes ketchup onto her serving, then offers the bottle to Peter.

 

He shakes his head.  “I’m ok.” 

 

_ Ketchup has more sugar in it than you know, May.  _

 

“Alright.  Be stoic. Torture yourself with the awful bland flavor.”  She giggles. “But I’m sticking to cheeseburger pie for my future cooking ventures.”

 

_ Ugh.  No. Please don’t do that. _

 

The last thing he wants is to have to skip dinner.  The thought of beef fat running into cheese grease is sickening enough, even when it’s not served up with bleached flour crust and salt and sugar disguised as condiments. 

 

Then again, one unhealthy meal every once in a while…  It’s not going to kill him. His metabolism can handle it.  It’s about small changes. Being sensible. Improving himself.  

 

But still.  “I think you’re onto something with the turkey, though,” Peter says as he takes another bite.  “Maybe if you tried, like, I don’t know. Gluten-free breadcrumbs or something…”

 

“Oh, to make it taste more like shoe leather?” May raises her eyebrows at him.  “You’re full of good ideas tonight. Not.”

 

“Hey, it was just a suggestion,” Peter laughs it off.  

 

“Alright, how ‘bout I stick to the cooking and you stick to the homework?  That gets us back to the regular separation of responsibility, right?” 

 

“Hm.”  Peter swallows a mouthful of corn.  The butter leaves a film of fat on his tongue.  

 

They eat in silence for a few minutes.  Then May asks, “How’s that Spanish project?  It’s a new thing, huh? I don’t think you’ve talked about Senora assigning something like that before.”

 

“Uh,” Peter hedges.  He doesn’t want to lie.  But as he tries to quickly come up with something to say, the feeling of fullness spreads through his stomach.  His jeans seem a lot tighter than they did a moment ago.

 

_ Enjoy being fat for the next hour or so.  You should’ve eaten slower.  _

 

Peter looks down at his plate.  He’s mostly done, but there’s still a bit of food left.  He used to finish up anyway, but tonight he knows he’ll feel worse if he shoves down another couple forkfuls.  

 

“Actually, I just remembered it’s due tomorrow.”  Peter gets to his feet and ferries his plate to the kitchen.  He pushes his unfinished portion into the trash. “Sorry, May, I gotta get to work on it.”

 

“Ok, sure,” she says.  She looks a little confused at his abruptness.  “Homework’s good. Leaving things till the last minute, though.  Not so good.”

 

“Yeah, I know…”

 

“Tell me if you need any more magazines,” May says as Peter heads back to his room.

 

“I will.” 

And he just might.  If  _ Men’s Health _ and  _ Seventeen _ don’t have any tips for counteracting after-dinner bloat.


	2. Swallow my doubt, turn it inside out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter sees a familiar face

Peter takes his time getting dressed for school.  He stands with his closet door open, looking at his profile in the mirror as he tucks in his t-shirt and buttons his jeans.  His chest and stomach make a flat line, or as flat a line as possible through the ripples of his clothes. 

 

_ You look fine.  Normal. Slim. Who fucking cares? _

 

But he knows there’s a softness to his stomach that tips the scale of his physique toward youthful rather than chiseled.  Regular kid rather than superhero.

 

_ Will you forget about it?  It’ll be gone by the time you finish digesting last night’s dinner. _

 

_ But it won’t. _

 

Peter shakes his head and pulls on a loose hoodie, defiantly ignoring the repeated murmur.

 

_ Won’t.  Won’t. Won’t… _

 

He tells May he’ll get breakfast at school and dashes down six flights of stairs and across the street to the subway stop.  The train rumbles up to the platform, and Peter hops on. It’s crowded with morning commuters, so he stands in the center of the car, gripping the safety bar with one hand and his phone with the other.  

 

Peter opens Instagram and scrolls through his feed.  But nothing captures his attention. He can’t concentrate on the photos.  It’s as if his vision is dimming as his other senses edge into overdrive.

 

_ Won’t.  Won’t. Won’t… _

 

It still echoes in his ears like the throb of a headache starting in his temples.

 

_ Jesus Christ.  Shut up. _

 

Peter lets out his breath in a huff.  He taps his thumbnail on the safety bar, producing a quiet bell-like ring.  It’s not an unpleasant sound, and Peter resigns to focusing on that instead.  He keeps up the movement until he’s hardly aware of it. His toes flit against the sole of his shoe in the same rhythm.  

 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… _

 

The train glides to a halt at the next stop, and the passengers hasten to get off and change seats.  Someone clips Peter’s shoulder, and he misses a beat. His mental count stutters. In a split second, he can’t recall where his count left off.

 

_ No!  Where’d you stop? _

 

_ It’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter.  It’s good that you forgot. _

 

But now his mind is free to acknowledge that he’s getting hungry.  

 

***

 

When he walks into the cafeteria for lunch,  Peter’s starving. The protein bar he’d ended up swallowing for breakfast hadn’t done much to keep him full and focused, despite _ Shape _ ’s promises that a solid 20 grams with the first meal of the day would do just that.  

 

He looks around for Ned and spots him already in line at the pizza window.  For a second he considers joining him, but reality quickly sets in. Like he’d told May last night.  He’s not in pizza mood. Permanently.

 

_ Fiber and lean protein.  That’s what you need. _

 

The main food line moves slowly, but eventually Peter emerges with a salad and a bottle of water.  He heads for his usual spot where Ned is settling in a few feet down from Michelle. 

 

“Hey,” Peter says, putting down his tray and climbing over the bench.  

 

Michelle raises her eyebrows over the book she’s reading, but doesn’t otherwise respond.  

 

“You know,” Ned says, eyeing Peter’s meal, “We’re not doing food journals for homework anymore.  Why are you still pretending to eat healthy?”

 

Peter shrugs and stabs at the salad with his plastic fork.  “Healthy eating’s good. Sometimes you just need a break from pizza, you know?”

 

_ Pizza’s bad.  You’re never having pizza again. _

 

Ned shakes his head and looks down at his own plate, which is reduced to nibbled crusts.  “I can’t even imagine it.”

 

Michelle snorts, book still hiding her face.

 

“See. MJ’s on my side,” Peter chides.  

 

“I guess.  But I don’t know, man…”  Ned sounds doubtful.   
  


Peter shovels greens into his mouth.  There’s a packet of ranch dressing on his tray.  It‘s not too late squeeze some out and add flavor to his food.

 

_ It’s probably made with dairy, though.  And full of fat. _

 

“Or are you watching your diet because of...you know…?” Ned whispers, shooting a sideways look at Michelle.

 

“Huh?”  Peter’s stomach turns to ice, masticated lettuce practically crystallizing in his throat.  He hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t done anything suspicious. Has he?

 

But an image of himself with Ned’s rotund physique, struggling into his Spider-Man suit plays in his mind.  

 

_ Ugh.  _

 

“You know,” Ned prods.

 

Peter shakes his head.  He glances at Michelle too.  Just because he can’t see her face doesn’t mean she’s not listening.

 

Ned leans close across the table.  “Are you gonna ask MJ to go to prom?” he whispers.

 

“What?  No!” Peter almost upends his salad bowl, and he grabs it just before it tips over the edge of the table.  “God. I...thought you were talking about...something else…” He trails off, embarrassed.

 

“Oh,” Ned says.  Then his eyes go large as he comprehends.  “Ohhhhhh. Is it ‘cause of the Stark—”

 

“Are you gonna go to prom?” Peter asks hurriedly.  When even is prom? It was a topic on the morning announcements, he thinks.  Peter looks around for a poster or something. 

 

A handful of kids from student council are running around with flyers and tape.  They’ll probably have a banner up in a matter of minutes. Peter watches Gwen lead the charge.  She points up to the large blank wall at the back of the room and nods at the boy beside her. He’s not someone Peter knows, but he seems familiar.  Not to mention attractive. 

 

“I haven’t decided,” Ned says.  “I mean, homecoming was kinda fun.”  He takes a bite of pizza crust and shrugs.  “I wonder if we’ll get out of class for another assembly.  Like they did for homecoming, you know? And introduce the court?”

 

“Eh, I don’t know…”  Peter’s distracted. 

 

He feels like he does know that guy from somewhere.  He’s sure they’ve never had a class together, but something about the dark curly hair, the sideways tilt of his smile… With his loser luck, Peter’s probably ogled him in a coffee shop or something.  He thinks about asking Ned if he knows him, but the last thing he needs is for Ned to turn around in his seat and make a scene. Or turn the conversation onto something else Peter would rather keep private.

 

_ You’ve been staring too long. _

 

He’s also been digging his thumbnail into the side of his knuckle.  Peter pokes at his salad again, but he’s lost his appetite. Ned’s still talking, but Peter doesn’t take in a word of it until he’s suddenly interrupted.

 

“These guys represent Academic Decathlon,” Gwen’s voice says.  

 

Peter snaps his head up.  She and the mystery boy approach the table.

 

Gwen’s blonde ponytail flicks side to side as she nods at Michelle, Ned, and Peter and introduces them in turn.  “Do you remember Harry Osborn? He used to live here, back when we were in grade school.”

 

Peter tries not to let his jaw drop.  Harry Osborn. The kid he’d palled around with in first grade.  The one who’d moved away the same year Peter’s parents had vanished.  He’s back?

 

“Yeah, uh, my dad’s moving Oscorp back to the city.  Into the old Stark Tower, actually,” Harry explains awkwardly.  “So I basically left here and grew up in Jersey, but now I’m here again…”

 

“And his family just moved into my building,” Gwen picks up.  “So I’m trying to help him make the rounds.” She smiles. “And maybe recruit him for student council.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that.  Sounds like a lot of work” Harry laughs.  The sound makes Peter want to join in. He settles for biting his lip and hoping he’s not blushing.  

 

“We’re nerds,” Ned says.  “So I don’t know if you want to be friends with us either...”

 

Peter has to give him kudos for honesty.  And he partially agrees.

 

_ You don’t want him to get to know you again.  Too much has happened. You have too many secrets. _

 

_ But...fucking look at him. _

 

But Peter knows he can’t.  He’ll never be able to look away.

 

“I don’t mind.”  Harry swings one leg over the bench and sits across from Peter.  He furrows his brow for a moment. “Parker…” he muses. “I remember you.”  

 

“Yeah, I think we were in the same kindergarten class.”  Peter doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he clasps his fork between them.

 

“Oh my god!  I totally remember,” Gwen says, sitting down too.  “You guys were buddies, right?”

 

Harry nods.  He looks distant, as if trying to drudge up the memories.

 

“It’s been a long time,” Peter says dismissively.  He dreads the inevitable  _ so what’ve you been up to? _ -type questions.  What the hell can he say?  

 

“Peter has an internship at Stark Industries,” Ned brags.  “So as far as nerds go, he’s actually pretty cool.”

 

“Dude.”  Peter gives Ned a scorching look.  “I don’t want to talk about it to everybody.”  

 

Luckily another interruption comes in the form of a girl in a cheerleading uniform.  She holds out a huge bakery box, offering decorated cupcakes to the table. “Hey,” she sing-songs.  “Vote Caryn for prom queen, yeah?” She shifts the box so her padded bustline is on display. 

 

“Getting your campaigning in early,” Gwen says with a nod.  “I like the spirit.”

 

“I’m planning on going all in.  All day, every day. Till voting closes.”  She pushes the box toward Peter. “Have a cupcake.  Everybody loves a sweetheart, right?” She winks at him.

 

“Uh.”  Peter sits straight and leans backward an inch.  An influx of divergent emotions hits like a punch to the throat.

 

_ Everybody’s looking at you.   _

 

_ Just take one.   _

 

_ But...sugar.  And gluten. And fat. _

 

_ Harry’s looking at you. _

 

He can smell the frosting.

 

_ You know you want one. _

 

“I’ll have one.”  Ned breaks the uncomfortable silence and digs his greasy fingers into the box.

 

“Yeah, yeah.  One for everyone,” Caryn says.  

 

Gwen takes a cupcake.  Then Michelle. Harry reaches in next.

 

_ Everybody has one.  You can’t not. Not now.  Not in front of him. _

 

Peter grabs a cupcake, smearing the frosted lettering urging him to vote.

 

Everybody’s eating now.  Michelle even shuts her book to remove the wrapper with both hands.

 

“I didn’t think you liked sweets that much,” Ned teases Michelle.  “Or school spirit.”

 

“Eh.”  she licks a crump from her upper lip.  “It’s just funny. I wonder if she knows voting doesn’t even start for, like, two weeks.”  Caryn’s already flirting with another table. 

 

“Well, if she’s gonna keep feeding everyone’s sugar habit...” Harry says with his mouth full.  “Maybe not a bad problem to have.” The way he smiles as he’s chewing...

 

_ Just eat it.  It’s not going to hurt you. _

 

_ You’re the stupid odd guy out now.  Take a damn bite. _

 

The scent of sugary buttercream makes Peter’s mouth water.  He finally sinks his teeth through the layer of frosting. Guilt immediately makes it taste sour.

 

_ This is bad.  You’re bad. Bad.  Bad. Bad… _

 

The word repeats in his head each time his jaw grinds.  The sound of his swallow echoes so loudly the whole table has to hear it.  

 

_ Stop.  Just put it down. _

 

But he can’t.  Peter’s mouth opens mechanically, and he takes another bite.  

 

Before he knows it, Peter’s crumpling the empty cupcake wrapper in his fist.  A tremor of sickening guilt courses through him. The back of his neck feels hot and damp with sweat.

 

“Peter?”  Gwen looks at him expectantly.  So does everybody else. She probably asked him a question or something.  

 

_ Great.  Now you look really stupid.  Why is a fucking cupcake giving you anxiety like this?  It’s fine.  _

 

“You ok?” Gwen asks.  It’s definitely not the same thing she just asked.  

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, his voice coming out weaker and higher than he’d like.  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

***

 

He gets as far as scribbling the date at the top of page before he loses focus.  Peter presses his palm to his open notebook, watching the paper begin to ripple under his clammy touch.  He tries to bring himself back to the lecture, but he can’t. His thoughts rush out before he has a chance to corral them.

 

_ Why did you eat that cupcake?  You’re going to feel bad about it for the rest of the day. _

 

_ It tasted good.  You’ll burn it off in a few hours.  You’re going too hard too fast. You said you weren't going to do that. _

 

_ Let yourself have treats.  All the magazines say that.   _

 

Peter’s stomach gurgles, probably struggling to find nutritional value in the avalanche of sugar he’d dumped into it.  He read somewhere that it takes 20 minutes for the digestion process to begin after eating. The lunch period has only been over for 15.  Maybe it’s just his anxiety giving him a stomach ache. 

 

_ You shouldn’t have eaten it.  It’s going to haunt you all day. _

 

It’s going to haunt him for his entire life.  

 

He needs to take a walk.  Distract himself.

 

Peter slides out of his seat and grabs the hall pass without asking.  He leaves the classroom and starts down the corridor, timing his inhales and exhales with his slow, measured steps.  

 

_ You’re ok.  You’re in control.  Stop freaking out.  _

 

The words don’t do any good against the panic rising inside him.  There’s a bathroom coming up after the next bank of lockers, and Peter ducks inside.  It’s empty, and he’s glad for it. 

 

Peter grabs the edge of the sink.  He turns on the tap and watches the water flow.  He should splash his cheeks and cool down. The guilt sitting in his chest rises, making him almost nauseous.  

 

If he could just get rid of the bad feelings.  The heaviness in his gut. The sour taste on his tongue.  He knows how. In theory.

 

_ That’s too much.  You don’t want to do that. _

 

Peter looks down at his right hand, balled into a fist, nails scraping against his palm.  He flexes his fingers and imagines them pressing down his throat.

 

_ It can’t make you feel any worse than you already do. _

 

Peter’s thoughts quiet as he turns off the water.  He chooses the furthest stall and locks himself in.  He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to kneel down. He leans over the toilet, saliva already pooling under his tongue.  The saltiness of his sweaty hand joins the sweet and bitter flavors as he reaches to trigger his gag reflex. 

 

It happens faster than Peter expects, and he jerks back in surprise.  Thick cake vomit pours all over his hand and the toilet seat. He coughs and sputters, then gags again without provocation.  

 

Peter yanks down several feet of toilet paper to wipe up the mess.  __

 

_ Is that it?  How do you know when your stomach’s empty?  _

 

The prospect of putting his bile-stained fingers back in his mouth is somehow more disgusting than purging the first time.  He does anyway, and more comes up. 

 

When the heaves turn dry, Peter drops his forehead to his wrist.  Physically, he feels horrible. True nausea rattles in his chest and behind his sinuses.  Stars shimmer around his vision, exacerbating the blur in his watering eyes. 

 

_ Alright.  You’re ok.  You’re ok.  _

 

Peter uses more toilet paper to give his hand and lips a cursory clean, then he flushes the toilet and staggers upright.  He’s as weak and shaken as he would be if he were sick with the flu. 

 

He washes his hands as vigorously as he can while still catching his breath, then presses a rough paper towel into the corners of his bloodshot eyes.  His whole face is flushed with a combination of illness and embarrassment.

 

Finally he calms down enough to head back to class.  Peter’s relieved none of his friends share this hour with him.  He doesn’t want anyone to ask if he’s feeling ok. 

 

Because the answer would probably be yes.  He’s feeling a lot better.


	3. I want to have control.  I want a perfect body.  I want a perfect soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter loses it and lies

“What’s up with you?  Come on! Concentrate!”  Mr. Stark raises his boxing gloves in front of his face.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter pants.  He bounces on the balls of his feet, anticipating Tony’s next move.  But he does a bad job and ends up shifting into the punch instead of away from it.

 

“Jesus Christ.”  Tony shakes his head and drops his fists.  “You can’t be getting tired. You know real fights last a lot longer than this.”

 

“Yeah…”  Peter plays with the velcro on his own glove.  He is tired, but he still shouldn’t be making mistakes like this.  “Sorry.” 

 

But the training match is already sliding away as a flurry of half-formed thoughts drift across his conscious brain.  The lean turkey sausage he’d devoured for breakfast, the schoolyard games he used to play in first grade, the calories he’s burned from exercise, how it might feel to press his lips against Harry’s chiseled jaw…

 

“Well, it is getting late, I guess,” Mr. Stark says, looking at the large clock on the wall of the compound’s gym.  “I keep forgetting you’re not used to eight-hour days. I’d think that would be something the education system would drill into you.  Prep you for the future and all.”

 

Peter shrugs.  “They kinda try.  But I think they cut it at six and a half?  Or something like that.” He should really have his breath back by now.

 

“Alright.  I’ll try to remember that.”  Tony rolls his eyes. “FRIDAY?”  

 

“Sir?” The AI replies.

 

“You’re taking notes, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Remind me not to work the kid longer than six and a half hours at a time.  That’s probably healthy, right?”

 

“I’ll run a search for relevant studies,” FRIDAY responds.

 

“Perfect.”  Tony takes off his gloves and throws them down in the corner of the ring.  “I didn’t feed you lunch, did I? You know we don’t do normal meal times around here, but that seems kind of cruel.  Are you hungry?”

 

Peter shakes his head, but Tony keeps talking.  “I’ll order something. Well, Pepper will. I don’t know, what do you like?  You like Italian? Or Thai?”

 

_ No, no, no.  _

 

Sitting down to eat with Mr. Stark?  It’s like asking for another crushing wave of anxiety.  And he’s not even hungry.

 

“May’s cooking tonight,” Peter lies.  “I was kinda hoping to be there…” 

 

_ Yeah, play the sad orphan kid.  Throw your fake family issues at the guy with real family issues. _

 

“Oh.  Well, uh.”  Tony steps through the ropes and holds them apart for Peter.  “I’ll call your ride, then.”

 

***

 

“Hey, thanks, Happy,” Peter says when the black SUV stops in front of his building.  “See you next time.” He waves enthusiastically, but Happy doesn’t even look in his direction.

_ Oh well _ .  

 

Peter heads inside and starts the marathon stair climb.  His backpack bounces against his spine as he runs up the first couple flights of steps.  He slows to a walk as he reaches the third floor. Then to a limp as he ascends to the seventh. 

He hasn’t used the elevator in over a month.  He’s been committed to climbing up and down from his apartment every time, be it through the maze of staircases inside or along the brick wall outside.  It started out as a mechanism to make him stronger, but now it’s just an addiction. 

Peter’s quads tremble as he pops out in the hallway and digs in his pocket for his keys.  He’s glad no one’s hanging around in the hall—he’d rather keep his shakiness and lack of breath private.

“Whew, ok,” Peter mutters as he lets himself in.  He drops his backpack, not bothering to take it to his room, and flops down on the couch.  He intends to turn on the TV, but reaching for the remote on the coffee table seems like more effort than it’s worth.  Now that he’s safely holed up to ride out his racing heartbeat, motivation to do anything has evaporated. He can feel all the hits he took in today’s training session throbbing beneath his skin.

Peter would be happy to just fall asleep, but after an hour or so of semi-conscious lounging, he can’t ignore the waves of nauseous hunger crashing through his skull.  With breakfast long since digested and lunch skipped altogether, it’s little wonder that he’s starving. Literally. 

He should eat.  He can eat. He has to eat.  As nice as it would feel to let today slip away with under 1,000 calories ingested, he can’t.  Just existing has to have already burned that off. Then there was the training workout. And the stairs.  And now the headache.

 

_ You’re doing so well.   _

 

_ But that’s too much too fast.  People will start to notice. _

It’s the one time Peter’s sure it’s safe to eat, and he doesn’t want to.  He shakes his head at his own stupidity. He heaves himself off the sofa, ignoring the vertigo that starts up between his eyes. 

Peter gazes at the contents of the fridge, uninspired.  There’s a Tupperware of leftover lasagna, but he thinks he’ll leave that for May.  With the calorie count, not to mention high amounts of lactose and gluten and acidic sauce, he knows he’ll spend too much time perseverating on how each bite will wreck his system.

Peter opens the freezer instead and surveys the options.  Ice-coated packages of chicken nuggets and fries dominate the space.  It seems May’s kept on buying them even though Peter’s stopped heating them up after school. 

He shifts a couple bags and boxes, hoping for something a little further from home-cooked fast food. 

_ You need fats and carbs and proteins _ .

 

Peter closes his hand into a fist and digs his nails into his palm.  

 

_ But fuck that _ . 

There’s a freezer-burned bag of green beans tucked into the far corner.  That’ll do. Something to fill his stomach, give him the illusion of being satiated.  He will be satiated. With the fiber of green vegetables and the knowledge he hasn’t actually consumed a calorie.

Peter’s hands shake as he tears open the bag and dumps the green beans into a bowl.  They’re stuck together in a sloppy green haystack. It looks more like a sea creature than dinner.  But he shoves the bowl into the microwave and leans against the counter to wait.

He does a bad job estimating the cook time.  Even though the bowl’s steaming when Peter pulls it out, there’s a fair bit of ice floating around the edges.  He sighs. He should put it back to cook some more, but sick hunger gets the better of him and he grabs a couple of beans with his fingers and shoves them into his mouth.  It’s not like he deserves nice food to begin with.

Peter takes the bowl back to the living room and devours green beans in front of the TV.  He doesn’t take in a second of the local news; he’s too focused on savoring the vegetable pulp that’s making his jaw sore as he chews.

He’s so ravenous it only takes him a few minutes to finish eating.  There’s no relief, though. No energy rushing through his body to perk him back up.  Just more confusion and discomfort. Peter’s still hungry. But he’s guilty for eating.  Sloshy and sick to his stomach now, since plain vegetables make a poor, watery substitute for the fuel his body actually craves.

_ Give it a minute.  It can take time for your body to recognize that you ate. _

 

But there’s leftover lasagna in the fridge.  Chicken in the freezer. Probably some array of breakfast cereal and pop tarts in the pantry.  And suddenly he wants all of it.

 

_ You’ve been so good.  A little bit of something won’t hurt.  A treat for behaving. Rewards are good for keeping up goals, after all. _

 

Peter remembers the line from the magazine article.

 

He also remembers what happened last time.  

 

_ But you can’t.  You know how guilty you’ll feel. _

But he doesn’t want a little taste of something.  He wants a meal. A banquet. Something to take away the gnawing ache of hunger and replace it with the happiness that comes with delicious food.

 

Before the shame and onus come back, of course.

 

Though there are ways to deal with that.  Peter weighs his options for a moment. How long till May gets home?  She said she’d be working late. Not  _ really late _ , just  _ late _ .  Peter glances at the clock.  It’s almost 7:00. He does the math and gives himself a solid hour.  If it’s as easy to purge as it was on the first attempt, that’s more than enough time to give in and dispose of the evidence.  

Peter’s hands are still shaky as he sets the empty green bean bowl beside the sink.  Then he opens the fridge to survey the options again, this time with a frenzy beating in his chest.  He grabs the Tupperware of lasagna first, then a package of sandwich cheese. From the freezer he takes chicken nuggets, throwing them onto a plate and into the microwave.  He doesn’t care that they won’t get crispy that way. Peter snags a fork and starts shoveling cold lasagna into his mouth as he glances over what’s available in the pantry.

He grabs an armload of snacks and pours condiments over the chicken, then takes his feast into the living room to spread out over the coffee table.  Peter turns up the volume on the TV so he doesn’t have to hear himself chewing and swallowing. 

_ Savor the taste.  Remember what pasta tastes like.  And cheese. And barbecue sauce. And Oreos.  Because you’re never having any of this ever again. _

The TV is showing what’s supposed to be a human interest story about a charity food pantry.  It’s more like a kick in the gut, so Peter changes the channel to a Spanish soap opera before pushing another two or three cookies into his mouth. 

Then he feels stupid.  First for binging, then for not even knowing what he’s eating.  It’s sufficiently disgusting to kill his appetite.

_ You are never doing this again. _

Peter’s still chewing as he hurriedly loads the dishwasher and throws away wrappers.  He doesn’t bother to swallow the last mouthful. He just heads to the bathroom. 

The clock on the wall says it’s 7:30.  It means he’s taken too long. Only 20 minutes till food starts to digest.  What did he eat first? The green beans don’t count, so that means the lasagna.  Fuck. Pasta and cheese and visible molecules of grease will move from his stomach through his intestines, absorbing into his system.

_ Gluten causes bloating.  Cheese makes you fat. _

Peter spits a black sludge of masticated chocolate cookies into the toilet.  

 

_ You’re fat and ugly and disgusting. _

 

He gags on the thought.  Then shoves his finger down his throat for good measure. 

He tries to count his ragged breaths rather than the number of times he forces himself to throw up.  But it’s the same number regardless. Peter embeds his fingers into the hair behind his ear, then drags his nails down the surface of his skin.  He retches again. 

He tastes bile, and he’s nearly choking on half-digested strings of green.  He’s done. He has to be. 

_ A couple more pushes, just to be sure.  Your stomach will still be bloated, but at least you’ll know you’re empty. _

But over the sound of his hammering heartbeat, Peter can hear a key scraping in a lock.  May’s home.

“Shit,” Peter pants, punching the toilet paper roll until a long piece spins to the floor.  He tears it off and wipes the toilet seat first, then his mouth and filthy hand. He flushes away the mess and leaps to the sink to wash up. 

His reflection is ragged.  Peter’s eyes are red and streaming, the muscles in his jaw trembling.  He looks down at the froth of soap between his palms. Ok. You’re clean.  Rinse. 

But he can’t.  

 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… _

 

The numbers play in his head like the spray of bullets from an automatic weapon as he whips his hands back and forth. 

_ Stop fucking scrubbing.  _

“Hey, Pete, I’m home,” May calls.  She sounds too close. She’s in the hallway, not the living room.

Peter rinses and reaches for the hand towel.  He scrapes his nails over the back of his hand through the thin fabric.

“Peter?”  May knocks on the door.

“Just a sec…”  Dammit. His voice’s reduced to a croak.  Peter buries his face in the towel and jams his thumbs into his eyes to stop them from dripping.

The knob rattles, and the door opens a crack.  “Hey. You ok?”

Peter hastily puts the towel back.  “Yeah,” he mutters, not turning around.  “Can you not bust in on me?”

“Usually, yeah,” May says, throwing the door completely open.  “But you’ve been hanging with me for a decade, give or take, and I think I can tell when you don’t feel good.”

“Mm.”  Peter needs to rinse out his mouth.  He needs to shower. 

“Did you throw up?”

“No,” he replies automatically.  

 

_ She knows you’re lying. _

“It stinks in here,” May says matter-of-factly.  She grabs Peter by the shoulders and spins him around to face her.  “You’re pale and gross and your eyes are red.” She reaches up to feel his temperature.

Peter bats her away.  “Jesus, May, just leave it.  I’m ok.”

May puts her hands up and takes a step back.  “Ok, ok. Touchy. But it’s ok if your stomach’s sick.”

“My stomach’s not sick,” Peter grumbles.  He wraps his fingers around to the back of his neck and presses his nails into the soft flesh.  

 

_ Your head’s not sick either. _

“Are you, like, stressed out?”  May asks. “You can talk to me, you know.  About anything. If it’s a class, or a girl…”

About a girl?  Seriously? Peter shakes his head.  “I just want to take a shower and go to bed.”

“Ok.  Take some Pepto.  Or ibuprofen. Or whatever, as long as it’s within the recommended dosage.”  May sighs. “Do you have a clean bag in the trash in your room?”

 

“Uh.  Yeah… I’m ok.  I just...need a minute.”

“Ok.”  May raises her hands and turns to leave.  “One more thing,” she says.

“Huh?”  

 

_ Please don’t ask another question. _

“Why were you watching Spanish TV?  Another weird assignment from Senora?”  She might just be trying to get him to smile.  Or it might be more of the interrogation.

“No, I wasn’t really watching...” Peter says.  “I was watching the news, but…I just…” He trails off, unsure of how he wants to spin the truth.

“Oh, Pete,” May breathes, her eyes welling up behind her glasses.

_ Oh, god, what did I do? _

“It’s ok.  Still happens to me sometimes too.”

“What?”

“Whenever it’s a shooting, I just... can’t watch anymore.  Every single crime story is Ben all over again. It’s ok to still be upset.”  May nods earnestly.

“Oh.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?  Or I could do some research, find you a counselor…”

“No, May, I’m ok,” Peter says.  “It’s just…hard.” 

 

May’s the one who brought it up.  But he hates himself for going along with it.  

 

_ What kind of manipulative rat bastard are you?  You can’t pull this kind of shit on people. You already did it to Mr. Stark earlier. _

_ But what else are you supposed to do?   _

 

Peter wants to sink through the floor.

“Yeah.”  May opens her arms.  “Here, give me a hug.”  She squeezes him against her chest. 

Peter’s throat chafes as he swallows.  He has nothing to say.

“Ok.”  May finally releases him.  “Shower. Sleep. You don’t have to go to school tomorrow if you still feel like barfing.  I’m not encouraging you to use it as an excuse. I just, you know. I love you.”

The kindness in her words feels like salt thrown against Peter’s wounds.  He scratches hard down the palm of his hand. He wishes he could draw blood.  “Yeah, love you too, May.”


	4. Do you really want to be like them, do you really want to be another trend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter lies to his friends

When he wakes the next morning, Peter doesn’t feel like barfing.  He does have a sore throat, though. And he admits to it when May asks how he’s feeling.  

 

“I don’t think you have a fever,” she says, reaching across the kitchen table to feel his forehead.  “But I know stress does funky things sometimes. Do you feel up to school?”

 

Peter shrugs.  Physically, yeah, he’s fine.  His acid-burned esophagus is nothing but an annoyance.  He knows his stomach is puffed up with the effects of dehydration and excess salt.  But he feels disgusting, and not just because of what he did last night. The prospect of changing for gym before the bloat has a chance to fade isn’t one he wants to face.  He shares the locker room with fifty or so other boys who could easily steal a glance at his naked stomach. Including Ned. And Harry. It makes him want to throw up all over again.  

 

“Well, I’d rather not get a call to come pick you up,” May says, getting up to pour a glass of orange juice.  “So, it’s your choice.”

 

“Ok.”  If he says thanks, does that make it sound like he’s looking for permission to ditch?  “I think, uh, maybe I’ll go back to bed for a while.”

 

“Have some of this first,” May says, setting the glass down in front of Peter.  “You want some toast? You need to put something in your stomach.”

 

Peter eyes the juice suspiciously.  

 

_ Fruit is pure sugar.  Sugar is bad. _

 

“I don’t know… I’m not really hungry.”

 

“Vitamin C’s good for you.”  May takes her cereal bowl to the sink.  She flips open the cabinet of spices and plunks the salt down on the counter.  “So is gargling.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah.  Ok. Maybe in a little while?”  He pulls a resigned face. More sodium is so not what he needs…

 

“Alright,” May says as she settles the bowl on the drainer.  “You drink that. I’ll call you in sick, then I gotta go.” She gently pats Peter’s shoulder.  “You gonna be ok?”

 

“Yeah.  I’ll be fine.”  Peter picks up the juice glass.  He can’t think of something else to say.  May’s watching him, so he has to take a sip.  A tiny one, so the fructose entering his system will be minimal.  And so will the burn on his aching throat. But he knows it’s just an excuse.

 

As soon as May disappears into her room, Peter dumps the orange juice into the sink.  Then he heads back to bed.

 

***

 

It’s almost two in the afternoon when Peter wakes next.  He probably could’ve slept longer, but his head is killing him.  The heavy throb feeds down from his skull through his entire body.  “Ugh,” Peter groans. Dehydration is a bitch. 

 

He rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom to suck water straight from the tap.  He practically feels his stomach expand with each swallow, but for once survival instinct wins out.  

 

_ And proper hydration helps combat bloating.  You know this. You’re ok. _

 

Peter had hoped to pull himself back together by the time school let out so he could get in some patrol time before May returned from work.  But that’s not looking like it’s going to happen. 

 

_ God, you’re dumb.  The whole point of this was to be a better Spider-Man.  Now you’re too sick to go be Spider-Man. _

 

_ But you’re not sick _ .   _ There’s nothing wrong with you.  Not really. Deep down, you know what’s best and what you have to do to get there. _

 

Peter goes back to his room and curls into his rumpled sheets.  He grabs his phone from his bedside table. As expected, it’s blown up with messages.  There are a handful from Ned asking where the fuck he is. One from May checking in on him.  And one from Happy, conveying Mr. Stark’s condolences for being home sick. 

 

_ He’s watching your school attendance records... _

 

Peter responds to that one first since it’s the one he’s most likely to overthink.  

 

_ Thanks, I’m on the mend,  _ he types.  Peter hits send before he reconsiders.   _ On the mend?  Who says that? _

 

He answers May next, with an empty promise to eat lunch soon.  Though he’s casually watching the clock, more than a little curious to see if he can make a full 24 hours without food.

 

As he sends a series of unrelated emojis to Ned, Peter feels the beginnings of hunger gnawing at his empty stomach.

 

_ Please not now. _

 

He can already see a repeat of last night happening if he isn’t careful.  Best to keep himself otherwise occupied. 

 

_ Ned: You’re alive? _

 

_ Peter: Yeah _ .   _ I wasn’t dying.  Stomach was just messed up. _

 

Ned sends a green-faced nauseated emoji and the words  _ stay away _ .

 

_ Peter:  I’m not contagious.  _

 

But he does need to come up with a good excuse.  If he knows anything, it’s that Ned isn’t going to stop asking.

 

_ Ned:  Oh. I might have given Gwen your number. _

 

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion.  He his thumbs hover over the phone’s keyboard, trembling slightly.

 

_ Peter: What?  Why? _

 

_ Ned: I think she wanted to send you a get better message or something. _

 

There’s a pause.

 

_ Ned: I think she likes you. _

 

“Jesus Christ…”  Peter shakes his head.

 

_ Peter: No she doesn’t. _

 

But if she asked Ned for his number, maybe she does.  She can’t though. It doesn’t make any sense. She likes Harry.   Harry must like her. They’re inseparable at school, and no one spends that much time together without some kind of attraction.  So Peter’s screwed either way. The awkward kid watching from inside the closet. He drops his phone and digs his nail into the side of his thumb.

 

Peter’s stomach rumbles.  He glances at his alarm clock.  Four more hours. He’ll eat then.  Or whenever May gets home and makes dinner, not before that.  That’ll make a day without food. And that’ll be something to be proud of.  

 

He rolls to his back and slides his hands down the sides of his ribcage, which is hard and angular as it should be.  His stomach is softer, but he can feel muscle instead of flab now. He imagines how much faster he is without the bloat weighing him down.  Or how much faster he would be if he didn’t still have such a headache.

 

Peter’s phone vibrates under his shoulder, and he contorts to pick it up without moving.  It’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognize. 

 

_ Glad you feel better. —Harry _

 

“The fuck…”  Peter blinks hard to be sure he’s not misreading.  Ned said he gave his number to Gwen. But maybe Harry’d asked Gwen to help him.   Because he’d been embarrassed, maybe? Or maybe Harry was texting from Gwen’s phone.  Or maybe someone found out and it’s just a cruel joke. 

 

Peter can’t respond.  It’s too risky. But he takes a screenshot of the message.  And when he curls back up with his arms wrapped around his stomach, he has a smile on his face.

 

***

 

There are no excuses on Tuesday.  Peter doesn’t want to press his luck lying to May.  Plus he’s actually looking forward to school. Maybe.  If he doesn’t let anxiety get the better of him. 

 

He spends twice as long as usual brushing his teeth because he just can’t get the toothbrush out of his mouth.  When does he know he’s clean? How does he know he hasn’t missed something? Some errant bit of plaque that somehow Harry will be able to see from halfway across the school.  

 

The bathroom clock shows almost five minutes have elapsed since he squeezed out the toothpaste.  He has to be good. After a couple more strokes. It isn’t until May taps on the bathroom door and tells him he’s going to be late that Peter finally rinses his mouth and hurries to pack up his things.  

 

“Hold on, wait a sec,” May says as Peter skids through the kitchen.  

 

“Yeah, sure.”  He stops impatiently.

 

“You’re feeling a lot better, huh?  Excited to get to school and get your make-up work?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, wondering if that’s suspicious.  “I just don’t want to miss too much, you know? Academic Decathlon can kick you off the team if your grades slip, and, well…”  

 

_ You’re dumb.  That didn’t help. _

 

“Well,” May kisses his forehead.”I’m just glad you’re doing alright.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Ok.  Go to school.”  

 

“See ya,” Peter says taking off for the front door again.

 

“Hey, did you want breakfast?” May calls after him.

 

Not really.  “Um…” Peter stops with his hand on the doorknob.  

 

“Here.”  May lobs a silver-wrapped pack of Pop Tarts at him.  “Eat on the road.”

 

Peter catches the pastries and weighs them in his palm.   _ Carbs.  Sugar. Gross.  _  “Thanks, May.  See you later.”  

 

***

 

Peter’s still doing the math as he climbs the stairs out of the subway station and heads toward school.  He should eat. At least a little bit. Something to keep his brain power up. School isn’t overly challenging most of the time, but Peter’s quickly learning that a perpetually empty stomach doesn’t make things any easier.  

 

He should’ve stopped at the deli across from his building for some hard-boiled eggs or something.  Pure protein for lean muscle. But he’d been too preoccupied to think that through before he’d jumped on the train.  

 

Peter approaches the school’s front doors.  He glances at the crowd of students milling around outside, then back down to the pack of toaster pastries in his hand.  He doesn’t see anyone he knows in the immediate vicinity. And if he’s honest, the idea of eating anything at all has him salivating.

 

_ But do you really want to be honest, though?  When you could be...better?  _

 

He should eat.  He doesn’t have a gluten sensitivity, not really.  He has an enhanced metabolism. Half a Pop Tart can’t hurt.  

 

Peter’s on the point of tearing open the wrapper when someone calls, “Hey.  Parker.”

 

“Hm?”  Peter looks up.  Harry strides toward him, Gwen half a step behind.  “Oh. Hey.” Peter moves the silver wrapper between his hands, his hunger vanishing in a flurry of nervous heartbeats that seem to stair-step down to his stomach.  He’s not going to eat now. Not in front of Harry.

 

“Missed you yesterday,” Gwen says.  “You were sick?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Peter mumbles.  His palms are tacky, and his fingertips stick to the Pop Tart wrapper.  “I’m ok now.”

 

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted before he can speak.

 

“Peter!” Ned yells, bulldozing his way into the conversation.  “You’re done barfing!”

 

Fucking Christ.  Peter’s cheeks burn.  “Yeah, way to tell everybody, Ned.  Thanks.” He punches him in the shoulder, toeing the line between playful and angry.  It’s not an image he wants to promote. People can’t start associating him with sickness.

 

Ned shrugs.  “Well?” he laughs.  

 

“Naw, it was nothing,” Peter tries to explain.  “Just a stomachache. My aunt thinks I might be allergic to gluten or something…” He trails off and looks down at the Pop Tarts again.  “I don’t know why she gave me these.”

 

“I’ll take ‘em.”  Ned snatches the packet out of Peter’s hand and tears the wrapper.  “That sucks, though, man.”

 

“I’m ok.”  Peter feels his cheeks flush.  Maybe from the lie. Or maybe from the attention.  But at least it’s a good excuse. It’ll serve him well later, keep his friends from commenting on the fact that he doesn’t eat much lunch anymore.  That he doesn’t eat much of anything anymore. At least, not when they can see him. 

 

“Is that what happened the other day?” Harry asks.  “You looked kind of bad after those cupcakes…” He trails off and looks at the ground.  

 

“I, uh.  Yeah.” Peter doesn’t know what he’s saying.  He’s too busy not looking at Harry’s shoes. He’s not looking at Harry’s belt buckle either. 

 

“A lot of people are sensitive to it,” Gwen pipes up.  “It might be related to a lot of wheat crops being genetically engineered these days.”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Peter says.  

 

Ned shoves half a Pop Tart into his mouth.  “I’m not sensitive to it,” he says. “I don’t know how I’d function without carbs.”  He looks to Peter. “It’s like the funeral of your food life.”

 

“It’s not that bad.”  Peter wishes he’d shut up.  Then maybe Harry would say something again.

 

Gwen checks her watch.  “It’s gonna be my funeral as a member of student council if I don’t get in there.”  She takes a step toward the door and turns to Harry. “Did you still want to help make copies?  Of the ballots?”

 

“Oh.”  Harry shifts his backpack on his shoulder.  “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

 

“We gotta go,” Gwen says.  “See you guys in class.” She waves to Peter and Ned.  “And voting for prom court opens next Friday. So start thinking about who you’re going to pick!”

 

“Sure.  Yeah.” Peter returns the wave.  

 

“Do you even know who’s running for court?”  Ned asks, starting on the second pop tart.

 

“That girl who was passing out cupcakes, I guess,” Peter says.  “I don’t know. Probably not people who hang with us.”

 

“Mm.  Yeah. I’d vote for the cupcakes.”  

 

“Of course you would.”  Peter shakes his head. He needs to forget the way Harry’s voice sounded when he said “ _ hey, Parker.” _

 

But he knows he won’t.  It’s not like he’ll be able to concentrate today anyway.  But at least the desire to stuff food into his mouth is gone.


	5. First you get hurt, then you feel sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter starts a new routine

Peter stands on the narrow wall surrounding the top level of the parking garage.  He looks down on the empty street below and wonders why he’s keeping watch here. Nothing’s happening.  Nothing’s happened all afternoon. It makes him wonder why he bothers to patrol at all.

 

_ Cause it’s important.  You’re keeping the city safe.  You’re the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man… _

 

A few weeks ago, the phrase would’ve pumped him up.  But today it just makes him sigh. He’s bored. His mind keeps drifting.  Peter’s gotten good at tearing himself down lately. Maybe he can use it to his advantage.   

 

_ Remember what happened to Ben?   _

 

_ Or are you too selfish to think of anybody but yourself? _

 

_ You’re making sure that doesn’t happen to other innocent people.  If some creep with a gun shows up, you’re gonna web down and blitz across the street.  Unless you’re too lazy. Too fat. Too slow. _

 

But even that can’t hold his attention.  

 

Peter should be poised and ready for action.  He’s shaved off a few pounds. His suit stretches less around his abdomen.  There are more lines of muscle, at least when he’s not bloated with the process of digestion.  He’s well on his way to being sleeker. Faster. Better.

 

He should feel more confident.  This is supposed to raise his self-esteem, make him a more effective hero.  But here he is, balancing on a ledge, doing nothing. Peter wonders what would happen if he lost his footing.

 

He’s quick and light enough that he’d probably land on his feet, but tiredness still weighs him down.  If he went home and took a nap he probably wouldn’t miss anything. For a moment he considers it. But he won’t be able to rest any easier than he’s able to concentrate, not with the gnawing ache stretching from his stomach to his throat.

 

_ You’re doing so well.  Don’t jinx it. _

 

Peter hasn’t eaten at all today.  He’d sipped on a bottle of diet Mountain Dew at lunch, claiming his stomach was still tender.  The drink had given him energy and caffeinated jitters, along with a side of puffiness from the carbonation.  

 

But it’s died down now.  Peter’s skinny again. And tired.  And so hungry his teeth are on edge, begging for something to bite into.  He should start carrying gum. Peter imagines how that would look, his jaw visibly working through the veil of his Spider-Man mask.  Probably something else to make him look like an incompetent kid. 

 

_ You’re not incompetent.  You know what you need. You need to eat.  You’ll be nutrient-deficient if you don’t. You’ve read the articles.   _

 

There’s a bodega on the corner across the street.  Peter can hear the bell over the door ringing as a white-haired woman attempts to push her walker through the entrance.  The thought of the potato chips and snack cakes lining the shelves inside makes his mouth water.

 

_ You need carbs and fats and proteins in order to function. _

 

_ You can’t function knowing you’ve eaten shit like that.  How many times is it going to take for you to learn? _

 

But he knows how to strike a balance.  The burn of acid on his throat, the humiliation of purging, it’s all insignificant in comparison to the rush of pleasure that comes with the taste of sugar and salt and grease.  They’re Peter’s drugs. Imagining the crinkle of a cellophane wrapper is enough to ignite an excited tremor in his hands.

 

Peter takes a steadying breath and shoots a web up to the nearest street lamp.  He leaps off the ledge and swings across the road. A few running steps soften the impact as his feet find the sidewalk.  He bounds up behind the elderly woman and holds the heavy door open for her. 

 

_ Just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. _

 

“Thank you, son,” she says, shuffling her walker over the threshold.

 

“Sure thing.”  Peter waits for her to pass, then zips down the candy aisle.  He grabs five or six packs of Peanut Butter M&Ms and heads to the register.

 

As he waits for the man in front of him to buy a lottery ticket, Peter stares at the cold drinks and chips beside the counter.  He craves the satisfaction of salty carbs, the crisp taste of soda... 

 

_ A little more food won’t hurt.  Not when you’re going to get rid of it anyway.  _

 

He adds Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a Diet Coke to his haul.  

 

Peter hesitates before dumping the snacks onto the counter and digging out his debit card.  It’s a lot of sodium. A lot of sugar. 

 

_ You sure you want to do this? _

 

The fact that it’s been almost a day since he consumed a single calorie hangs heavily in his mind.  

 

_ Purge till you bring up bile.  Then it doesn’t count. _

 

Peter pays and leaves,  swinging the plastic bag as he sprints down the sidewalk.  He’s well out of his neighborhood and not exactly sure where he’s going, but it’s for the best.  There shouldn’t be anyone he knows around here. 

 

He finds a decently concealed alley and flops down.  Peter dumps out the shopping bag. He lines up the M&M’s packets end to end and places the bag of chips below them.  The Coke is shaken up, froth visible in the space below the cap. Peter takes out his phone while he waits for it to settle.  His fingers tremble with anticipation as he opens the clock application and sets a timer for 20 minutes. He’s not letting anything start to digest this time.  

 

Peter hovers his thumb over the start button for a second as he looks at the spread.  He pushes his mask up over the lower half of his face. 

 

_ Ready.  Set. Go. _

 

***

Peter braces himself against the wall with both hands.  His suit is rolled down to his hips, the arms tied around his distended abdomen.  He heaves again, sending a torrent of foamy vomit into the puddle already on the ground.  It’s mostly liquid, burning his throat and mouth with the spice from the hot cheetos. 

 

Peter sputters, then reaches up to gag himself before the nausea fades.  He tastes the gluey sweetness of peanut butter gummed up in his throat. He gags, straining, but doesn’t bring anything up.  Melted chocolate coats his fingers when he pulls them out.

 

He’s beginning to panic.  He’s past the time limit. If he can’t get everything back up…  

 

_ You know how quickly calories add up…  Nothing burns off as easily as you think it does.   _

 

Peter starts to subconsciously do the math.  He shakes his head. There’s at least a pound’s worth of energy swimming in his stomach.  

 

He scrapes his hand against the rough brick wall to remove the stickiness and tries again, pushing into his esophagus until he can’t breathe.  Candy-flavored mucous hangs from his lower lip and drips slowly toward his feet.

 

_ Never again.  You can’t do this.  You’re fucking it all up.  You’re stupid.  _

 

Peter drags his tongue across his teeth in an attempt to kill the disgusting spiciness that seems to be getting stronger as it mixes with his stomach acid.

 

_ All your hard work lost in one stupid moment. _

 

His disgust with himself ramps up his nausea.  His knees weaken, and Peter takes a step sideways.  He presses his bare shoulder into the wall to keep from collapsing.  The texture of the brick scrapes his skin. He leans into it, increasing the sensation of rawness and pain.

 

_ Pass out later.  You have to finish this now. _

 

He steels himself up and jams his finger into his throat again.  After a painful moment, something shifts and everything finally starts to come up.  Bile and saliva run down his chin, but he’s too relieved to care. 

 

It takes an excessive amount of time for Peter to feel empty again.  When he finally spits out the last grainy dregs, he’s completely spent.  He’s almost too tired to walk, but the sun is beginning to dip into the space between afternoon and evening.  He needs to leave for home now or risk running into May on her own evening commute.

 

There’s nothing for Peter to use to clean up, so he wads up the discarded shopping bag from the bodega and rakes it over his mouth.  He wipes as much sick from his hands as he can and struggles back into his suit. He’ll need to shower and do laundry as soon as he gets into the apartment.  

 

_ What would Mr. Stark think if he saw you like this?  What would May think? Or Harry? _

 

Peter’s not sure he’s ever been more disgusted with himself.

 

***

 

The next morning passes in a blur.  Peter’s throat is sore again, but he buys a pack of gum on the way to school.  He figures it’s a better choice than cough drops since it’s sugar-free. And the chewing motion will keep him burning extra calories throughout the day.

 

“Peter!” Gwen flags him down outside the Spanish classroom.  

 

“Yeah?” Peter turns around and waits for her to dash across the crowded hall.

 

“Hey,” she says, her eyes bright.  “I have a student council meeting after school, and I had an idea.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I know how much trouble you’re having finding things to eat.  I mean, you just had a soda at lunch the other day.” Gwen gives a sympathetic laugh.

 

Peter’s heart skips a beat _.   _

 

_ What does she know?  What has she noticed? _

 

He instinctively folds his hand into a fist, settling his thumbnail against his knuckle.  

 

He stays silent a moment too long.  “You know, with, like gluten-free stuff?”  Gwen prompts.

 

Oh yeah.  The lie he’s living.  The tightly wound panic in his chest loosens, sending out a rush of unspent adrenaline in the form clammy palms.  Peter nods.

 

“So, I thought I’d bring it up at the meeting.  We should get some better options in the cafeteria, better stuff in the vending machines.”  She’s in full presentation mode, rattling off facts and statistics. “More and more people are getting celiac diagnoses.  New York is ranked one of the best cities in the country for gluten-free dining. It only makes sense for Midtown to be as accommodating.”

 

“Cool.”  Peter nods again.  It would look stupid if he didn’t.

 

“Do you want to come with me?  It’s right after school, in the cafeteria.”  Gwen looks at him expectantly. “I thought it would be good for the other members to hear about it from someone who’s living the experience.”

 

“I don’t know…” 

 

_ You don’t know about gluten-free diets.  Not really. Gluten is bad because bloating is bad.  Bad. Bad. _

 

Peter’s suddenly conscious of the feeling of the waistband of his jeans against his stomach.  He digs his nails into the skin of his palm.

 

“Oh, that’s right,” Gwen says, smacking herself in the forehead.  “You have the internship. I forgot.”

 

“You don’t have to keep track of my schedule.”  Peter laughs to press down the anxiety. 

 

“Well, you’re probably doing way more important, interesting stuff.  Than, you know, student council.” She laughs. 

 

“Eh.”  Peter shrugs.  

 

“Let me give you my number.  I have yours already, so I’ll just send you a text real quick…”  Gwen pulls her phone from her pocket. “If there are some specific things you like to eat, or brands or something, let me know, ok?  I want to present as much information as possible. I really want to help you out.”

 

“Alright, thanks.”  Peter feels his phone vibrate inside his backpack as the message lands.  “It’s all kind of...still new. But I’ll let you know.”

 

_ You fucking liar.  She sees right through you. _

 

“Ok.  Cool.”

 

The bell rings.

 

“Crap.  I gotta go.  See you later!”  Gwen sprints down the hall to her next class.

 

“See ya.”  He turns to enter the Spanish room.  

 

Ned stands in the doorway, staring at him.  

 

“What?”  Peter asks.  How long has he been hovering there?  

 

_ Don’t flip out about it.  It doesn’t matter. It’s not like you were doing anything.   _

 

_ No, just lying your life away. _

 

Ned shrugs and finds his seat.

 

***

 

The look on Ned’s face is burned onto the backs of Peter’s eyelids.  He sees it all over again each time he blinks. The blank expression, full of silent questions.   

 

_ What are you doing?    _

 

The final bell rings, ending classes for the day, and Peter hustles out of the building.  

 

_ Ned thinks you’re into Gwen, but he’s not into her, so he thinks you’re ditching out on him… _

 

_ And you kind of are.  You have been since you got bit by that spider in the first place.   _

 

_ How many times have you not hung out with him because you have better things to do? _

 

_ And how many more times have you done that in the past month?  Because you didn’t want to face a bowl of popcorn or some shit? _

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Peter growls at himself.  Anger swirls as nausea in his empty stomach. He squeezes his wrist and claws his nails down the back of his hand.  

 

_ Stop thinking about that.   _

 

He craves salt.  And sugar. And punching the shit out of something.  

 

_ You need to go on patrol.  You did a crappy job of keeping everybody safe yesterday. _

 

The urge to destroy something continues to rise, and Peter scratches himself hard again, the white marks turning to pink.  He breathes in and out, matching the rhythm of his steps. He counts slowly until his arms stop trembling. 

 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… _

 

Peter passes the alley where he usually dumps his backpack.  He rounds the block and enters an unfamiliar corner store. He knows what he needs this time.  Regular potato chips. Gummy candy. Chocolate without nuts. Lemonade free of carbonation. Paper towels.  Hand sanitizer. 

 

He makes his purchases, then slips behind the building, changes into his suit, and scales up to the roof.  He can keep a lookout from here while he eats. Peter dumps out the contents of his shopping bag and sets his timer for 20 minutes.


	6. Set them free at the break of dawn till one by one they were gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter fucks up the mission

“I thought we were done with these guys,” Peter calls to Tony as they jet down the street toward a warehouse.  Tony’s nearly horizontal in midair, and Peter webs frantically to keep up.

“Ok, first, you don’t have to talk that loud.  You’re on a comm. I can hear you just fine. You know, without the shouting.”  Tony replies with a hint of annoyance.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark.  I forgot.” Peter cuts between a building and a light pole.

“How could you forget?  You installed it in your mask!”

“I helped you install it,” Peter corrects, trying to keep the irritation out of his own voice.  “But yeah, I should’ve remembered. Sorry.”

“Mm.”

“Were you going to say something else?”

“Was I?”  Tony asks, distracted.  He’s probably running over mission details with FRIDAY.  Peter wishes the comm could get him in on that.

“I think so…?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony jumps back in.  “I wish we were done with these guys, but it’s a crime syndicate, what do you expect?”

“Um…”  Peter shrugs and cocks his head.  Then dodges a street light. “I’ve never really fought a crime syndicate before.”

“What, you thought it was the Vulture and that’s it?”  Tony laughs. “Well, hate to break it to you, kid, but this is just how it works.  If you get rid of the leader, shit dies down for a while. A few months, a few years, it’s all kinda the same.  But then somebody else steps up and it just keeps going.”

“Oh.  Ok.” Peter thinks about it for a moment.  “Keeps us employed, I guess.”

“If by that you mean it keeps everyone in the city including you and me in bodily harm, I guess you’re right,” Mr. Stark says.  He goes in for a landing, kicking up dust from the warehouse’s gravel driveway. 

_ Ugh.  Not the thing to say, apparently. _

 

“Sorry.”  Peter releases his web and flips to the ground at Tony’s side.  He folds his arms behind his back, intent on hiding the fact that they’re already trembling from the exertion.

“Alright, you got your head in the game?” Tony asks. 

Peter nods.  “Mm. Yeah.” 

 

_ Nothing wrong here.  Nothing at all. _

“Ok.  FRIDAY’s got heat signatures along one wall, then two dots in the middle.”  Tony points to different areas of the dilapidated building before them. “What does that mean to you?”

“Uh… Are they static?”

“Line, yes.  Dots, no.”

Peter lets that sink in.  “Two dudes and a bunch of computers?” He guesses.

“Maybe not computers, but close enough.  Good.” Tony claps him on the shoulder with his metal-gloved hand.  “Alright, here’s the plan.” He points at the warehouse’s front door.  “You go in here in front. I go around to the delivery bay in the back while they’re preoccupied.”

Peter’s face falls behind his mask.  “You want to use me as bait?” Disappointment hangs heavily in his voice.  

 

_ I’m better and faster than I used to be, and that’s still what you want me to do on missions? _

“No, it’s calculated use of your skill set,” Mr. Stark says.  “You excel at dodging and blocking. Incapacitation is not your strong point.”

“I can incapacitate!” Peter insists.  “I have taser webs. I have instant kill!”

“Hey, this is not a killing mission.  It’s a tie-them-up-and-wait-for-the-cops mission.”

“I’m guessing you want me to tie them up?”  Peter rolls his eyes.

“Well, you have the string.”  Tony laughs.

“God, it’s not funny,” Peter says, trying not to whine. 

“Oh, come on.  It was kind of funny.”

Peter sighs and shakes his head.  He jams his fingernails into the back of his hand, but it does nothing through his gloves. 

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry,” Tony says sarcastically.  “Didn’t realize you were so sensitive. Can we get on with this, or do we have to do a hug and a secret handshake?”

The fight leaches out of him.  “It’s fine,” Peter mumbles. “I’ll go through the front.” 

“Alright.  Good.” Tony kicks off the ground into a hover.  “Ready? ‘Cause I’m kind of done talking about this.”

“Sure.”

“Ok.  See you inside.  Aaaand…go.” He zooms around the corner of the building.

“Ok,” Peter whispers, steeling himself up.  He cracks his knuckles, then shoots a web.

He swings forward, breaking down the warehouse’s door with a swift kick.   _ See, I’m strong. _

The two arms dealers evidently aren’t expecting company today.  One sits with his feet up on his desk while the other fiddles with something that looks more erector set than alien tech _.   _

 

_ Yeah, real big danger, Mr. Stark. _

 

They look up as Peter glides across the open space of the warehouse, suspended from the beams of the ceiling.  “Alright, dudes,” he says. “Time’s up on this operation.”

 

An echoing bang rings out as Tony pulverizes the back door with a blast of blue-white light.  The criminals spin around, looking away from Peter as the threat of the Iron Man suit approaches from behind.  

 

_ And there he goes, stealing the thunder… _

 

The arms dealers scramble to pick up weapons, and they stand back-to-back, staring down their opponents.  The one facing Peter is less than imposing. He’s overweight and sweaty, and his hands shake as he grips a leaf blower-like device close to his chest.  

 

_ You’re so much stronger than them.  Faster. Sleeker. You can take them on no problem. _

 

Peter touches down to the ground, glaring at the scared man in front of him.  He hesitates for a second, waiting for Mr. Stark to make a move. 

 

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”  Tony’s voice echoes out of his helmet. “Put the guns down and your hands up.”

 

Nobody moves.

 

“Alright then.”  He raises one hand toward the criminals, his palm glowing blue.  “Hard way it is.”

 

Peter shoots a web up to the ceiling again and suspends out of the path of the impending blast.  He swings himself backward and gathers momentum as he aims a kick at the nearest man’s head.

 

At the same time, Tony releases the beam of energy.  The arms dealers take off in opposite directions, tripping over furniture and brandishing their weapons.

 

“Don’t try to incapacitate!” Tony shouts.  His voice, enhanced through the comm, reverberates in Peter’s skull.  “You have to dodge!”

 

In his peripheral vision, he sees one of the criminals squinting the sight on his weapon.  He tries to swing out of the immediate path of danger, but Tony’s repulsor blast still cuts through the air.

Peter isn’t sure what hits him, but it fucking hurts.  His shoulder blade burns as if stuck with a red-hot brand, and he releases his web without thinking.  The sensation of free-fall blooms under his feet, then he’s face-down. The pain of impact doesn’t hit till he tries to move.

“Shit.  Ow,” Peter mumbles, scrambling to get his knees under him.  

 

_ That was stupid. _

“You good?  Can you walk it off?”  Tony’s locked in combat and not even looking Peter’s direction. 

“Ugh.  Yeah.” Peter uses the edge of a packing crate to haul himself to his feet.  His arms feel like noodles. The searing ache in his back and shoulder makes it hard to move his right side at all. 

“Get out of here.  I’ll find you in a few minutes, ok?”

“Uh-huh…”  Peter struggles to take a deep breath.  He picks his way along the wall, dragging his hand across a row of shipping containers.  The ridges bumping along beneath his glove give the illusion that he’s moving faster than his current shuffle.  It takes him an age to make it to the back door and stumble out onto the raised concrete platform of the delivery bay.  The sun stings Peter’s eyes through his mask. 

He lets his uninjured shoulder rest against the wall.  Why’d he try to do that? Totally undermine Mr. Stark to prove… what exactly?  That he’s strong and capable? Because that failed miserably. 

Anxiety builds in Peter’s stomach, pressing upward and straining at his throat.  It’s only taken a moment of mortifying self-hatred to turn his swirling emotions to nausea.  It’s practically Pavlovian now. 

 

_ Did something dumb?  Ok, go throw up _ .  

 

It’s a bad habit.  Well, not  _ always _ bad, but it is right now.

Peter lets his breath out slowly.  

 

_ You’re ok, you’re ok, you can manage _ .  

 

But the heat keeps rising.  He quickly shoves his mask up over the lower half of his face, holding it there as he retches. 

There’s not much in his stomach, just some orange juice and a protein bar.  Acid and chalkiness combine in a horrible sensation in his esophagus. 

 

_ See, you shouldn’t have eaten breakfast. _

The convulsions in Peter’s stomach leach out tendrils of pain that wind into his ribcage and up to his shoulder.  He coughs and winces, then spits hard to get rid of the taste. He’s jumping the gun, though. He doubles over and gives in to another sour-tasting dry heave.

“Jesus Christ, kid.”  Mr. Stark sounds somewhere between worried and exasperated when he joins Peter out on the delivery bay, out of breath and helmet off.  “Did you hit your head?”

“Ugh.  No,” Peter says, wiping his mouth on his glove and pulling his mask back down.  “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?  I didn’t see you hit the deck.”

“Yeah.  I’m good.”

“Take off your mask.  Let me see,” Tony pats Peter’s shoulder insistently.  “When you’re out here ralphing, I’m allowed to be worried.”

“I wasn’t…”  Peter isn’t sure why he’s denying it.  Instinct, he supposes. 

“Kid… shut up and take off your mask.”

Peter sighs and yanks the spandex over his head.  He’s careful not to let his gloves touch the skin of his face.  Flecks of puke have soaked through to his hands. He needs to wash the first chance he gets. 

“Alright, no immediately visible bump,” Tony says.  “I know you went down on your face, so no concussion?  Maybe?”

Peter looks at him blankly, his mind still on hand-washing. 

“Kid?”

“Oh, yeah.  No concussion.”  He fumbles for a decent explanation.  “I just hit pretty hard, got my stomach all messed up.”  He balls up his fists and imagines he can feel the prick of his nails against his palms.

“Alright.”  Tony maintains a doubtful expression.

“How’d it, uh,” Peter tries to get the conversation back on track.  “Did you get the guys, you know, incapacitated?”

“Oh.  Yeah,” Tony says.  “They’re nice and knocked out.  FRIDAY already put out a call to the cops, but if you want to run in and web ‘em up, it would be a nice touch.”

“Hm.”  Mr. Stark’s back to treating him like an accessory.  Like some kindergartener eager to show off and help the teacher.  

 

_ But maybe that’s how you were acting?  Like a stupid over-excited kid? That’s gross. _

It only takes a minute of perseverating for Peter to feel sick all over again.  “Are the cops gonna, like, take a while?” Peter thinks he might hear sirens. But then again, it’s the city.  There are always sirens.

 

_ And that means there are always criminals, so you need to get your fucking act together.   _

“Mm, probably not.  I might’ve mentioned something about them being illegal arms dealers harboring alien tech.”

“Oh.  Then I, uh, I think I’m good.”  Peter concentrates on pushing down his nausea.  “Are we, like, are we done?”

“When you say stuff like that, I know something’s up with you.  I’m gonna ask again. You sure you don’t have a head injury?”

“No, I’m good, I swear.”

“Then, I don’t know, like a fever or something?”  Tony reaches out with his metal-gloved hand. “I can have FRIDAY run a diagnostic, or—”

“Whoa, a diagnostic?”  

 

_ What does he think you are, some piece of malfunctioning equipment? _

 

“No, thanks.  I think I’m just gonna go home.”

“Ok, that came out harsh.”  Tony blinks hard as if he’s steeling himself up.  “I’m sorry. I, uh, I’m trying to say that if you’re hurt or whatever, let’s do something about it.”

“Thanks,” Peter whispers, looking down at his feet.  “I’m alright.” He crumples his mask between his hands and turns away from Mr. Stark.  “I’m gonna go.”

“There’s a hole in the shoulder of your suit,” Tony informs him.  “I don’t know if you noticed. We can fix it. Or, I’ll show you how you can fix it.  Get you a ginger ale or something…” He trails off as Peter continues to ignore him.

_ Ginger ale means sugar, which means calories, which means it’s bad.  Carbonation causes bloating… _

 

He can’t.  He has to get out of here.

“No, thanks.  We can fix it later.”  Peter jumps off the raised delivery bay and stumbles slightly as he finds his footing on the gravel below.  He shakes his injured shoulder, wondering if he’ll be able to hold his own weight.

“Alright, I guess,” Tony says.  “See you around.” His expression is confused, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Peter shoots a web up to the closest streetlamp and lifts his feet.  “Yeah. See you around,” he calls.

***

After scrabbling through his window, Peter strips.  He stands there in his underwear, examining his suit for a moment.  Just as Mr. Stark said, there’s a jagged hold around the back of one shoulder.  It’s only the size of a quarter, but the edges are burned dark brown, and the fine network of wiring between the layers of fabric is exposed. 

“Shit,” Peter mumbles.  He should’ve gone back upstate with Tony.  He should’ve powered through, drank a can of soda, and acted like his normal self.  Like a normal human being.

Peter opens his closet and hangs up his suit, then stares into the mirror on the back of the slatted door.  He can see his ribs. Not sharply, but they’re there. Same with his collarbones. Peter turns to look at his back.  As expected, there’s an angry red mark that lines up with the damage to his suit. And his scapula stands out beneath the skin.

 

_ Good.  That’s good. _

 

The sight of his muscles, lean and defined, surrounding the sharp edge of bone is intoxicating.  He wants this. He wants more of this. Peter turns again. His hollow stomach is flat for once, climbing down from his bottom ribs to his hip bones in shallow increments of visible definition.  

 

_ Keep it up.  You’re doing good. _

 

Peter’s phone chirps with a new text message, and he hurriedly grabs the nearest sweatshirt and flops down on his bed to read the message.  He’s not sure why he feels the need to be fully clothed when answering a text, but it feels more appropriate to cover up before he interacts with another person, even by virtual means.

 

A flutter of anticipation beats through Peter’s chest as he sees the name on his lock screen.   _ H-a _ …

 

Peter opens the message and quickly realizes it’s from Happy.  The excitement dies down just as quickly.

 

_ Happy: Mr. Stark wanted me to invite you to the compound next weekend.  He hopes you feel better. _

 

Peter lets out his breath.  He has a week. A week to get over today.  Settle into a new routine. Be pleased with himself.  

 

He can do that.  He types a reply.

 

_ Peter: Sounds good.  Thanks. _

 

_ Peter:  And I’m feeling better already. _


	7. Don’t call it a fight when you know it’s a war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the unthinkable happens twice

Peter stops in the middle of the cafeteria.  The tables are out of their usual alignment. It’s throwing him for a loop.  It seems like half the student body is lined up in front of the spot where he usually eats.  Or, more often, doesn’t eat.

 

He peers through the crowd and sees a familiar blonde ponytail.  Gwen smiles as she hands someone a sheet of paper and a pen. Of course.  Voting for prom court. It’s such an important part of high school. How could he have forgotten?  

 

_Oh, right, you’re working with the Avengers.  You’re taking care of yourself. So much free time… not._

 

Peter joins the queue.  He may as well vote, since he’s here.  Plus it’s a good excuse to stay standing.  Pump his feet. Burn some extra calories. He tries to remember who’s even running, besides Caryn Earle.  He guesses no one from the Academic Decathlon team.

 

As Peter watches, someone bolts up behind the table.  His face is turned away, but Peter would recognize that body anywhere.  The way Gwen’s face lights up is another good giveaway. She pauses giving out ballots to laugh.  Harry’s shoulders shake as if he’s doing the same. Peter wishes he could be in on the joke.

 

“Hey.  Whatcha doing?  Voting?” Ned suddenly appears at Peter’s side.  

 

“Mm.  Yeah.”  Peter adjusts the strap on his backpack.  

 

_Definitely not checking anyone out.  Not looking at Harry’s ass…_

 

“Or, uh, were you gonna maybe do something else?” Ned asks, a little too nonchalantly.

 

“What?”  

 

 _Not looking._  

 

“Like asking someone?  To the prom?”

 

“What?”  Peter’s confused.  “Who?”

 

“I see you staring.”

 

 _No, you don’t.  Not looking._  

 

“No, no, I’m not.”  But he can’t make himself turn his head either.  

 

“Yeah.  You’re totally looking at Gwen.”

 

Oh.  Well, now he is.  She’s leaning forward, her shirt gaping slightly, as she pulls more ballots from a box beside the table.  Harry squats to help her.

 

“You gonna ask her?”  Ned pokes Peter’s shoulder.  “I bet she’d go with you.”

 

“Um.”  Peter doesn't know what to say.  He’ll sound stupidly infatuated if he keeps denying it.

 

“I thought you liked Michelle, though,” Ned presses on.  

 

“I do.”  Then Peter realizes what he’s said and quickly backtracks.  “I mean, as a friend.”

 

 _That sounds so stupid._  

 

He drags his thumbnail down the back of his other hand.  “I’m not gonna ask her. Gwen, I mean. Or MJ. I’m not gonna...ask a girl...to Prom…” He trails off awkwardly.

 

“But you’re Spider-Man,” Ned says.  “Any girl would go with you. A hot cheerleader would go with you if you asked.”

 

The longer the words hang in the air, the less Peter wants to have to do with the dance at all.

 

“Oh, shut up.  Don’t talk about it.  There are too many people around.”  Peter finally peels his eyes away to look furtively over his shoulder.

 

“You really don’t want to go with a girl?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”  Peter wonders if Ned even knows what he’s saying.

 

“So, uh, would you, like, maybe go with me?”

 

Peter whips his head around so fast it makes him dizzy.  Ned looks determinedly straight ahead.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Not, like, romantically.  At all. Ever,” Ned says firmly.  “But like, I’m never getting a date, obviously.  So it might be fun to just go and laugh at the music and see what girls show up by themselves.”  

 

“Oh.”  

 

 _Ned isn’t asking you out._  

 

Good.  What kind of friendship-ending disaster would that’ve been?  

 

“So, like, do you want to?”

 

“I don’t know…”  The fact of Harry’s continued presence draws Peter’s eyes back behind the table.

 

“Come on, man.”  Ned follows his gaze.  

 

“I don’t know.  I don’t know if I want to go.”

 

“You sure about that?  ‘Cause you seem pretty intent on your target.  For someone who doesn't really want to go.”

 

“Sorry.”  Peter looks back to Ned.  He curls his fingers and bites all five nails into the skin between his knuckles.  “I just....I don’t…”

 

“Stop lying and just go ask her, ok?”  Ned takes a step back. “I know you’re way cooler than I am now.”

 

“Hey, I didn't say that.”

 

“It’s ok.  I’ll see you in class.”  Ned turns and leaves.

 

Peter sighs.  “Fuck.” He wants to go after Ned.  Set him straight. Well, maybe not.

 

_Go tell him.  Some of the story, at least._

 

But who’s he kidding?  He’s not going to talk.  Spilling his secrets...nothing’s worth the exposure that comes with that.  Even his best friend. And for that he hates himself.

 

The back of Peter’s hand feels damp.  He looks down and is horrified to see he’s drawn blood.  Not much; just a prickle of redness rising from the raw scrapes.  Why does he do this stupid thing?

 

_How can you not, though?_

 

Peter digs in his pocket for a crumpled tissue.  He dabs the blood away, then unfolds his fist and shakes it out.  The nails of his other hand are filthy, greyish dead skin and brick red melding into a sludge that’s probably full of germs.  Besides just being disgusting.

 

He needs to wash.  To scrub away the mess.  And maybe some of the shame.  He needs to get out of here. Peter lets out another frustrated breath and heads for the bathroom.  He steals one more look over his shoulder. But Harry’s gone.

 

***

 

For once, Peter’s grateful for the echoing noise of the gym locker room.  The sounds of doors slamming and people talking and water running aren’t rhythmic whatsoever.  The lack of order in the din is annoying. Practically headache-inducing. But at least it doesn’t force his brain to keep the beat.

 

Peter’s not grateful Ned’s locker is right next to his.  The awkwardness of lunchtime still hangs in the air between them.  The longer it goes on, the harder the silence is to break. Peter’s sure Ned will happily let it go as soon as they can turn the conversation onto Star Wars or Spanish class or literally anything but prom.  But Peter can’t find his voice. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to look for it.

 

There’s something almost comforting about not speaking to his best friend.  It’s like a test run for the future, one where Peter’s too wrapped up in himself to give anyone else the time of day.  In the rare moments when he can pull out of the black hole of his brain and look at things logically, he knows that future isn’t far off.  If he was honest with anyone about his habits...Peter shudders at the idea of the red flags he’d trigger.

 

Ned pulls his sweaty P.E. shirt over his head, sending a gust of body odor in Peter’s direction.  Peter pretends not to notice as he fiddles with the straps on his backpack. Does he look awkward standing there, waiting for Ned to finish before shedding his own clothes?  He probably does. It makes his brain itch.

 

_Stupid.  You look stupid.  Stupid, stupid…_

 

But he can’t change with Ned watching.  Not that Ned will be watching, not really, but it’s too much of a risk.  The last remnants of youthful fat around Peter’s waist are embarrassing. Ugly.  Disgusting. Not something he wants to show to other people. But then again, his ribs are more prominent than other people seem to like.  And that’s something else he’d prefer to keep to himself.

 

Ned puts on his backpack before he’s quite done buttoning his shirt and scurries toward the door.  He gives Peter a quick sideways look without turning his head. He’s definitely uncomfortable. Probably more so than Peter is.

 

For one second Peter considers saying something.  

 

 _We’re cool, man.  I’m sorry I made things so weird._  

 

But he can’t.  Not yet. And definitely not now.

 

By the time Ned’s gone, Peter doesn’t have much time left to change before his next class.  He puts his jeans back on first, then gives a furtive glance around. The locker room is emptying quickly.  He’s safe. Everything’s fine.

 

Peter quickly yanks his gym shirt over his head and immediately dives into his henley.  Sweat still glistens around his hairline. He leaves his locker and steps to the bank of sinks for a paper towel.

 

“Hey, Parker.”

 

“What?”  Peter nearly jumps out of his skin.  He lowers the crumpled towel and looks in the mirror.  

 

Harry’s a few feet behind him, dapper as ever and decidedly un-mussed, despite having spent the same hour in gym as everyone else.  “Hey,” Peter says, hoping his voice sounds cool and collected instead of exhausted.

 

“I saw you earlier.  In the cafeteria.”

 

“Oh.”  Peter wads the paper towel into his fist.  His nails press into the back of his hand again before he knows what he’s doing.  

 

_You can’t do that.  You’ve already made yourself bleed today._

 

“Voting for prom court, right?”

 

“Mm.  Yeah,” Peter says.  “Actually, no. I, uh, didn’t get a chance to fill out a ballot.  I had, um, something to do…”

 

 _You have something to do now.  Get your shit together and go to class._  

 

The bell rings as if to intensify his point.  He’s late.

 

_That’s bad.  Bad. Bad..._

 

“I have to go,” Peter starts.  He drops the paper towel in the trash and takes a step back.  

 

“Hey, wait a second,” Harry says.

 

“I’m, uh, late for class…”

 

“So am I.”  Harry shrugs.

 

Peter lets that sink in.  Amidst the echoes of _late_ and _bad_ , new facts settle in.  Harry’s acknowledging that they’re in the same space.  Talking. Together. Alone.

 

_Not that kind of alone together.  Get your fucking head on straight.  He probably is straight._

 

“So, uh,” Harry laughs nervously.  “I figure, since you were voting, you’re going to prom?”

 

_You told Ned you don’t want to go.  But maybe you’ll decide to go anyway.  Or maybe you’ll still be too torn up._

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

Harry nods.  “I don’t know if, like, maybe you’d want to go, um.  With me?” He pauses. Presses his lips together. “Like, as a really casual thing.”  His words come faster. “As friends. If, um…” It’s hard to tell for sure under the locker room’s yellowish lighting, but he might be blushing.

 

Peter takes a moment to let it sink in. Bubbles of happiness flutter upward from his stomach.  It’s basically a dream come true. An ill-thought through, flighty dream. With no details worked out.  He barely knows Harry anymore. They’re acquaintances. Not even really friends.

 

_But this is perfect.  Say yes. Say yes. Yes.  Yes._

 

“You don’t, I mean... I thought...” Peter waffles.  “You’re not going with Gwen?” He doesn’t mean for it be as accusatory as it sounds.

 

“Uh,” Harry smiles.  “Well, I still might, I guess.  As friends, or, like with a group.  If neither one of us actually got a, you know.  A date.”

 

“Huh.”  

 

_This is your cue.  He’s as good as said it.  Just say yes._

 

But he hesitates.  The other, more critical side of Peter’s brain alights.

 

 _You’re going to dance together in front of the whole school?  You’re going to have conversations without being awkward?_  

 

“So…?” Harry prompts.

 

_What are you going to wear?_

 

_You’re fat.  You’re nothing.  How can he even look at you?_

 

Peter scratches at the back of his hand, not caring that he’s re-opening freshly scabbed wounds.  He deserves it.

 

_What if stuff happens?  What if you take your clothes off?  What’s he going to think of you then?_

 

“I…” Peter lets out a shaky breath.  “I can’t.”

 

“Oh.  Um. Alright.”  Harry looks hurt.  He waves his hand as if it’s nothing.  “No big deal.”

 

 _He thinks you don’t like him.  He just fucking came out and you blew him off because you’re scared.  What kind of a person does that?_  

 

Not a good one.

 

He needs to apologize.  But what the hell can he say?  “ _Sorry, Harry, I am in fact in love with you but my goddamn eating disorder is ruling my brain right now_.”  Yeah, right.  And he doesn’t have an eating disorder.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Peter says.  His fingernails are sticky again.

 

“No, it’s ok.”  Harry walks backward toward the exit.  “I’ll, uh, see you later?”

 

“Sure,” Peter mumbles.  

 

As soon as the door closes, he turns on the sink and lets the tepid water rush over his hands.  He soaps up and listens to battling factions of his brain.

 

_You’re good.  You’re ok. Your secrets are safe.  You did the right thing._

 

_What the fuck did you do?  You had one chance to pull yourself out of your problems and maybe be happy like a normal person.  And you fucking blew it._

 

_You don’t have problems.  You’re doing the right thing._

 

Peter watches suds swirl down the drain.  He sucks in a deep breath. As he lets it out, a single tear falls down his cheek.

 

***

 

Peter’s over ten minutes late for class by the time he leaves the locker room.  Too late for him to use the excuse of getting held up changing after gym. That won’t work when he’s missed almost a quarter of the class period already.  The best thing to do would be to just go home.

 

If he gets caught ditching, he’ll get detention.  But at this point, Peter’s not sure he cares. He’s not sure he cares about anything.  The flutters of happiness in his stomach are turning toward anger and sadness. He’s almost nauseous.  Maybe he should go to the nurse.

 

Peter turns down an empty hallway as he contemplates making a break for it.  He wants to curl into a ball and cry. He wants to run until his legs give out.  He wants to stuff his face with chocolate.

 

“Peter?  What’re you doing?”

 

“Huh?”  He thought he was alone.  

 

Michelle sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall outside the Health classroom.

 

“Why aren’t you in class?” She demands.

 

Peter shrugs.  “Why aren’t you?”

 

“I object to the content of today’s lesson,” Michelle says.  Peter can see the flickering lights of a movie showing through the classroom window.  He can only imagine what it’s about.

 

“It’s also funny to see who comes out of gym late and guess what they were doing.  Or, I guess, _who_ …”  Michelle laughs.

 

Peter’s heart skips a beat.  “I wasn’t…I mean, I just got held up.  It was...crowded, and…” The more he says, the worse it sounds.

 

“Right.”  Michelle raises one eyebrow.

 

Peter hopes she didn’t see Harry leave.  If she did… He doesn’t want to think about it.

 

 _You’re stupid.  You’re so fucking stupid!_  

 

Peter clenches his hands into fists, feeling the raw scrapes between his knuckles stretch painfully.

 

Michelle laughs, and Peter tries to rearrange his facial expression to something other than panic.  “Naw, I know you. I’m just kidding.”

 

“Ok.  Yeah.”  Peter lets out an uncomfortable breath.  “I, uh, I’m gonna go.” He takes a step backward toward the door at the end of the corridor, the one that leads outside.  “Don’t...don’t tell anyone, ok? I mean, that I’m ditching.”

 

“Not a soul,” Michelle says in a dark whisper.

 

“Cool.  Thanks, MJ.”  Peter backs into the door.  As soon as he pushes it open, he takes off running.


	8. In your head, in your head, they are crying.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter fights for control

Peter sprints away from the school.  He fights the urge to look over his shoulder.  He focuses on the pounding of his feet instead.  

 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… _

 

His steps echo in his head.

 

When he reaches the alley, he starts his ritual.  

 

_ Just patrol.  Focus on patrol.  Not food, not anything else. _

 

Peter kicks off his shoes and pulls his suit from the bottom of his backpack.  He strips out of his street clothes, desperately trying not to think about doing the same thing in the gym locker room.  If he does, it’s only going to start a chain reaction. 

 

_ “Hey, Parker.” _

 

_ “I don’t know if maybe you’d want to go with me?” _

 

Peter steps into his suit.  

 

_ Stop thinking about that.  That’s stupid. You’re stupid. _

 

_ “See you later.” _

 

He shakes his head, ramping up the ache that’s setting in behind his eyes.  Peter yanks his mask over his face. “Stop,” he mutters. 

 

_ MJ thinks you and Harry were fucking! _

 

“God!”  Peter slams his fist into the brick wall.  The scrapes between his knuckles split open again, intensifying the pain from the hit.  “Fuck!”

 

_ She’s not a gossip.  She’s not gonna tell anybody.  Plus, it’s not even true… _

 

_ Doesn’t mean you don’t want it to be. _

 

“Fucking shut up,”Peter mumbles to himself.  He shakes out his hand and shoots a web upward to catch the edge of the roof.  He scales the wall quickly, then takes a seat, his feet dangling stories above the sidewalk.  

 

It’s early in the afternoon, earlier than it usually is when he watches the neighborhood.  That should be exciting. A new opportunity for him to see what criminals are out and about at this hour.  

 

It’s not exciting, though.  Another wave of emotion ricochets through Peter’s chest.  It’s not burning like anger or shame this time. It’s cold and slippery and difficult to grasp.  An emptiness that doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that he skipped lunch.

 

He is hungry, though.  Gym class drained Peter’s energy, and he can feel the slight tremor of exhaustion starting to set in.  Maybe on his way home after patrol he’ll buy a salad. 

 

Fuck it.  He’d rather act like a heartbroken girl on television and eat cookie dough ice cream in his pajamas while he cries his eyes out.  Or French fries with barbecue sauce. 

 

_ Dairy makes you bloat.  So do spicy things. _

 

_ But a little bit won’t hurt.  Especially if you don’t keep it down… _

 

Peter knows he doesn’t have the self-control to deny himself.  He’ll stop in a corner store on his way home. He’ll have enough time before May gets off work.  

 

But he needs to focus now.  There aren’t a lot of crimes committed in the daytime.  But he imagines a few unsavory actions are happening. Maybe some late-lunch drug deals he could break up.  

 

A breeze rustles the leaves of the urban tree beside the building, and Peter feels the wind flow through the hole in his suit, tensing his shoulder blades.  Goosebumps prickle across his back and spread down his arms. It’s another reminder that he’s slow. Stupid. 

 

_ If you go hunt down criminals, you’re going to fail anyway.  You’re gonna get hit again.  _

 

_ You don’t deserve food.  You can’t afford how it affects you.   _

 

He needs to stop slipping up.  Stop giving in and eating treats, even if he gets rid of them.  For all his efforts, he’s not any faster or stronger. Not really.

 

_ You’re letting Mr. Stark down. _

 

Mr. Stark.  Who he’ll see this weekend.  Peter had been looking forward to training and working upstate again.  But he’s not anymore. 

 

_ You’re terrible.  You’re bad. Bad. Bad  Bad… _

 

“Shut up,” Peter whispers.  He looks down at the sidewalk.  Something’s blowing along, some kind of trash or recycling escaped from a bin.  He can hear it scraping across the pavement as the wind gusts. The least he can do is pick up litter.  Some kind of vigilante that makes him.

 

Peter anchors a web the roof and rappels down.  He swings a few inches off the ground and snags the piece of blowing detritus.  He releases the web and turns back down the alley to throw it away properly. 

 

But when he looks down at what he’s picked up, he finds a slightly crumpled copy of  _ Women’s Health _ .  This month’s issue.  With a tease on the front cover:  _ The truth about gluten _ .

 

Peter sighs.  With all the air released from his lungs, he feels empty.  Exhausted. Insubstantive. With no food in his stomach and no strength in his muscles, the wind is going to blow him across the street next.  

 

He stares at the magazine again, then shoves it into his backpack and changes back into his clothes.  Peter marches to the nearest bodega and pays an ungodly amount for a bag of gluten-free cookies. He opens the package as soon he’s out the door and shoves them into his mouth, one after another, until it’s down to crumbs.  

 

He’s still three blocks from home when he ducks behind a dumpster to throw up.

 

***

 

Happy pulls the black SUV in front of Peter’s building at 9 AM on the dot.  The drive upstate takes most of the morning, and Peter heads to the gym as soon as they arrive at the compound.  He almost runs into Pepper in the middle of the hallway. 

 

“You want some lunch before you work out?” she asks.  

 

Peter shakes his head.  “Thanks, though.”

 

“Well, you let me know.” Pepper shakes her head..  “God knows Tony’s not going to give you a snack break.”  

 

Peter smiles as he presses on through the double doors at the end of the hall.  He’s counting on it.

 

It’s afternoon when FRIDAY finally relays Tony’s message asking Peter to join him in the lab.  

 

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, slightly out of breath, as he pushes through the door.  He flops down in a swivel chair, which scoots several inches across the floor.

“Hey,” Tony says, not looking up.  He has something gripped between two pairs of tweezers.

“What’s that?” Peter uses his foot to skate the chair closer to Tony’s desk.

“Finally fixing that hole in your suit…and putting in an upgrade.”  He straightens a tiny section of wire with one set of tweezers, then abruptly stops and looks at Peter.  “I heard from Happy that you’re not giving mission reports so often anymore.”

Peter freezes.  After months with no feedback, he hadn’t thought anyone was interested in his rambling phone messages.  “Oh. Peter says. Oh, uh, sorry, Mr. Stark.” He frantically thinks back, trying to pinpoint the date of his last report.  A week ago? Two weeks ago? Peter digs his thumbnail into the palm of his other hand. “I’ll try to be better about that…”

“What?  No,” Tony says.  “I kind of like it better this way.  You know, less is more sometimes. It was…kind of annoying.”

“I’m…annoying?”  Peter doesn’t mean for it to come out as a whine.  But…no, this can’t be happening. Though with the way Tony’s been treating him lately, it hardly comes as a surprise.  His heart sinks, right down to his empty stomach.

“No!  Jesus, you don’t have to be so sensitive about it.”  Tony puts down the tweezers and finally gives Peter his full attention.  “Besides, this is all beside the point. I don’t do this a lot, but, are you ok?”

_ “Are you ok _ ?”

 

Peter’s first instinct is to panic.  

 

_ What does he know?  What did Mr. Stark find out?  Were you not careful enough? Is there extra surveillance you don’t know about? _

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says.  He chuckles to hide the uneasiness in his voice.  “I’m good.” He presses his nail harder into his skin.  

 

_ Please change the subject _ .

“Alright.  You sure?” Tony drums his fingertips awkwardly on the desktop.  “’Cause, I mean, I’m really no good at this, but if you ever wanted to talk about something, you know you can, right?  I’ll, uh, listen to your girlfriend issues or whatever, then probably give you some really bad advice because let’s face it, I have perpetual girlfriend issues…”  He trails off.

“Hm.”  Mr. Stark thinks he has a girlfriend.  Peter doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.  “Ok. I’m ok. I’m sure.” He cringes at the number of times the word has been said between them.

“Alright, well, now that you’re all uncomfortable,” Tony says.  “You wanna do this?” He gestures to the project on the desk. He picks up the miniature metal plate with the tweezers again.  “It’s your deal anyway.”

“What is it?” Peter asks, thankful for the turn in the conversation.  He struggles to remember the list of proposed upgrades he and Mr. Stark had come up with.  It’s been nearly a month since they brainstormed them. It feels like a lot has happened since then.  

“The deal for combat mode,” Tony says.  “Should be able to generate a force field between the layers of your suit…”  He picks up the second pair of tweezers, distracted. Then he glances back up at Peter.  “’Cause if you get any more injuries, May’s gonna think I’m beating you or something. Is that thing on your back better?  From the hit you took last week?”

“Yeah, it’s doing ok.”  Peter reaches around and runs his hand over the fading mark on his shoulder blade.  It’s not completely healed, but he’s not about to tell Mr. Stark that. His enhanced metabolism doesn’t seem to be as effective these days, at least with the healing factor.  Peter’s logical brain has an idea why. 

 

_ You’re going off the deep end.  You’re trying to do good, but you’re hurting yourself. _

 

It’s not something he wants to think about.  

 

He wants to work.  He’d do anything to get things back to normal.  But anxiety’s still spiking high enough to make him feel like climbing the walls.  Maybe literally. 

“I’m gonna just, uh, go to the bathroom,” Peter says.  “I’ll be right back.”

“Yup.”  Tony opens a drawer and pulls out a screwdriver. 

Peter slips around the corner and closes the door behind him.  He leans against the sink and breathes deeply. Mr. Stark can probably still hear him.  So he can’t do anything crazy. Like punch the wall. Or yell at himself. Or purge.

Why he feels the need to do that is beyond him.  Peter lets his logical brain rise, dishing out a mixture of facts and insults.  

 

_ Why do you want to do that?  You know what that is? That’s stupid. _

Peter wraps his fingers around his wrist and pushes half-moon indents into his skin.  

 

_ There’s nothing in your stomach anyway.  And you worked out. If you stick your finger down your throat, you’re just gonna give yourself heart palpitations.  Or strep. You don’t know what kind of germs your hands are carrying.  _

He turns on the tap and squeezes an excessive amount of soap out of the dispenser.  Peter works up a lather and scrubs until the sink fills with bubbles. He stands there for minutes, letting the water run over his palms.  

 

_ You’re wasting resources.  What does it matter if Mr. Stark can afford the bill?  Calm the fuck down. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine... _

He’s not.  He’s flustered now.  Peter bends over the basin and splashes his face _.  _

 

_ Just cool down.  Calm down. It’s not like anything is happening… _

He starts to replay the conversation with Tony.

_ “Are you ok?” _

_ “Yeah, sure, I’m good…” _

_ “I’ll listen to your girlfriend issues…” _

Mr. Stark can’t know about that.  He’s nowhere near observant enough to know.  Peter hasn’t mentioned Harry’s name. He doesn’t think he’s mentioned any of his classmates, except maybe Ned.

 

But he should still keep his guard up.  Not do anything suspicious. Like hanging around in the fucking bathroom for minutes and minutes.

He quickly dries his hands and face and steps back into the lab before he’s quite got his breathing back under control.  __

 

_ Ok.  You’re fine. _

“You alright, kid?”  Tony looks over his shoulder. 

Jesus Christ, not again.  “Yeah,” Peter says. He looks down and has to stop himself from anxiously picking off a hangnail.  “I had a splinter…from the gym, I think.” He balls his hands into fists so Mr. Stark won’t try to look.

“Gross,” Tony says.  He kicks Peter’s vacant swivel chair back from the desk.  “Here, come look at this circuit…”

Peter sighs as quietly as he can.  He goes back to the chair and accepts the tweezers Tony hands over. 

“See, this one is going to attach to the main system,” Mr. Stark says, nudging a piece of copper wiring.  “You want to try to attach it?”

“Yeah.”  This is exciting.  He’s working on his suit.  Peter tries to let the experience fill his mind.  He just hopes he can keep his hands steady.

***

 

May’s putting dinner on the table when Peter gets home.  He smells food as soon as he opens the apartment door, and he knows he won’t be able to avoid sitting down and eating.

 

“Hey.”  May sets down a casserole dish.  “How was it? Did you have fun?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, warily eyeing the dinner spread.  “Mr. Stark showed me some cool stuff.”

 

“Well sit down and tell me about it.  I love it when you tell me what you’re learning about engineering.  That’s what it is, right? Engineering?” May laughs at her own ineptitude.  

 

“Yeah, sure.”  Peter swallows nervously.  Sitting down at the table and having her watch him eat is about the last thing he wants.  But he doesn’t see a way out. “I gotta wash my hands.”

 

“Well, hurry,” May says, taking her seat at the table.  “I made cheeseburger pie. You’ve got to be hungry after spending all day bent over a lab bench.  I know how you guys are. Too excited about wires and fuses, no breaks…” She grins and shakes her head.

 

“Yeah.  Be right back.”  Peter forces a smile, but it falls as soon as he turns the corner to the hallway.  He throws his backpack down beside his desk and pulls the handle on the bottom drawer.  There are so many magazines crammed inside it barely opens. 

 

He should go through and throw out some of the more useless copies.  Peter’s tempted to do it now, but there’s no time. He has to get back to May and the dish of fat and grease waiting for him. 

 

He grabs the magazine on top of the stack and thumbs through its wrinkled pages.  The scent of lemon-fresh cleaner wafts out as he searches for something to give him peace of mind.  

 

_ How much can you eat without getting fat?  How much can you cheat before you should just give up?  How many times can you purge without anyone finding out?   _

 

The periodical shakes in Peter’s hands.  He knows he’s not going to find the answers here.  He’s not sure why he’s even looking. He’s flipping the pages too quickly to read the words on then anyway.  

 

He focuses on the wrinkled paper clinging to his clammy fingertips.  

 

_ One page turned, two pages turned, 3, 4, 5… _

 

Peter’s stomach growls.  He’s hungry. He should just eat.  Wash his hands and sit down with May.  Enjoy a home-cooked meal and tell her about his day.  What’s wrong with that?

 

_ Nothing’s wrong with that.  The problem is all with you. _

 

Peter lets out his breath.  He flips the magazine shut and shoves it back into the drawer.  He crosses the hall to the bathroom and pumps soap into his hands, praying he can wash away his anxiety again before May asks what’s taking so long.


	9. I am not afraid to walk this world alone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter is too hard on himself

The twenty minutes or so between the time the subway spits him out in front of the school and the time class actually starts has become the hardest part of Peter’s day.  He’s always tired. Hungry. Cranky. And his crumbling social life only makes it worse. 

 

Without Ned’s constant friendly presence to count on, he’s become more of a target.  It’s harder to walk past the bullies gathered around Flash’s parking space and avoid the rude names and wads of paper hurled in his direction.  Peter’s shoulders pull forward instinctively as a crumpled lunch bag bounces off his back. But he’s used to it. 

 

“Penis Parker,” someone laughs.  He’s used to that too.

 

“Faggot.”  

 

That’s a new one.  It rings through his ears a little more painfully than usual, kicking up the throb behind his temples.  

 

But it doesn’t hurt that bad.  They don’t know what they’re saying.  It’s a stupid word used by stupid people to put others down.  And Peter’s already down far enough that the verbal blow can’t do much damage.  

 

_ They’re right, though.  You’ve gotta give them that much. _

 

Peter can barely bring himself to care.  All it does is turn his thoughts uncomfortably toward Harry.

 

He hasn’t spoken to him, not since that disastrous day last week when he’d lost touch with both him and Ned in the span of 90 minutes.  

 

No best friend.  No boyfriend. Not that Harry would’ve been that anyway.  And no regular friends either. Gwen hasn’t talked to him, about student council or anything else.  Even Michelle seems to have dissolved into a sullen silence to match Peter’s.

 

He checks the time on his phone as he enters the school building.  No sense hanging around outside when there’s no one he wants to talk to, even if there’s still time to kill before the bell rings.  He’ll pace the halls for a while. Maybe review yesterday’s notes and get himself ready for his first class. Or at least pretend to.

 

Peter passes the cafeteria on his way toward the humanities wing.  A few students drift in and out with breakfast burritos and cartons of milk.  Eating this early in the morning has become a sickening idea. Even doses of pure, healthy protein are too much for him to stomach.  He starts his days with liquids only now. First cheap coffee from the subway station, then water when he gets to school. It does a decent job filling his stomach when his body’s still too tired to know the difference.

 

There’s a drinking fountain outside the double doors, and Peter bends to take a sip.   He digs an empty thermos from his backpack and runs through a few facts about hydration as he starts to fill it.  

 

_ Drinking enough water reduces bloating and promotes weight loss.  Drinking cold water helps burn additional calories… _

 

The dull murmur of chatter in the cafeteria carries out into the hall, but Peter doesn’t pay it any mind.  Until he hears his own name.

 

“Do you know what’s been up with Parker lately?”

 

He nearly drops the top of his thermos.  He’d know that voice anywhere. Harry’s talking about him.  He seems angry, or maybe worried. But maybe that means he cares?  Or at least that Peter’s on his mind. 

 

“Mm.  I don’t know…”  The reply comes in Gwen’s quiet tone.  “I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

 

“It’s just...I don’t know.  I thought we kind of had more to say.”

 

What does that mean?  Harry still wants to talk to him?  Date him? Fight him?

 

“He hasn’t had an easy time.  I wouldn’t blame him,” Gwen says.  “I don’t know if…” she pauses for a second.  “I don’t want to gossip, but you know what happened to him, right?”

 

There’s another pause.  Harry probably shaking his head, because Gwen’s voice sounds again.  “Well, right after you moved away, something happened to his parents.  They were in an accident or something, and he moved in with his aunt and uncle.  Then last year, his uncle died. He’s been through a lot, you know?”

 

Harry sighs.  “Fuck. I didn’t know.”

 

“Please,” Gwen says desperately, “Don’t tell him I said anything.  It’s not like a secret. It was on the news when his uncle… But still.”

 

Peter’s insides go icy, and it has nothing to do with drinking cold water.  

 

_ You have legitimate reasons to be fucked up.  Losing most of your immediate family tends to do that to people.  But no, you learned to deal with that. You flip out over calories and macros and stupid shit. _

 

_ It’s not stupid.  It’s about being better.  About being able to protect people.  Like May. _

 

_ But is it?  Really?  _

 

Gwen and Harry are still talking, and Peter’s missed something.  

 

_ Selfish. _

 

“Do you think I…  I don’t know. I screwed everything up when I asked him, didn’t I?”  He sounds dejected.

 

“I don’t know,” Gwen says.  Peter imagines her blonde bangs bouncing on her forehead as she shakes her head.  Harry’s probably twisting a worried face, biting his lip. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

 

“Oh, no.  No,” Harry says.  “I’ll figure it out.  I have to work it out myself.”

 

Peter lets out his breath.  He hadn’t been aware he’d been holding it.  He secures the lid on his thermos, the chill of the stainless steel making his hands numb.  He doesn’t want to hear any more.

 

_ See, he likes you.  If you would’ve just said yes and gone out with him, everything would be great. _

 

_ It wouldn’t and you know it.  What if he put his hands around your waist during a dance and felt how fat you are?  Or how bony you are? And started asking questions… _

 

Peter takes a circuitous route to his classroom.  He wants to avoid crossing paths with Harry until he absolutely has to.  

 

***

 

After school, Peter puts on his suit and immediately shoots a web up to the nearest street lamp.  Today is going to be different. He’s going to do his job for a change. Reorganize his priorities and not let Mr. Stark down.  Or his aunt. Or himself.

 

_ You’re Spider-Man.  Cookies and chips don’t matter.  Boys and school dances don’t matter either.  Your job is to keep people safe. _

 

He keeps an eye out for regular neighborhood mischief as he swings between buildings and across streets.  Peter gets a few waves and confused looks from the people out and about, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

 

_ See, nothing weird happens on Thursdays.  Everyone stays home. That’s why all the good TV shows have Thursday night spots _ .

 

If he sits still, Peter’s mind is going to take off into another downward spiral.  It feels good to move his body, to be aware of the lithe slimness of his waist as he glides through the air.  He keeps webbing past his usual bubble of stores and apartment buildings, not eager for the inevitable return to his thoughts when his feet hit the ground.  

 

Peter watches as the landscape around him passes from the residential to industrial.  Without consciously choosing to do so, he’s followed the same path he did with Mr. Stark a few weeks ago.  He’s coming up on the bank of abandoned warehouses where they busted the arms dealers. 

 

He releases his web and stumbles slightly as his feet find purchase on the gravel.  He braces his hands on his knees to catch his breath and get his bearings.

 

The back of Peter’s neck tingles.  It’s not an immediate indicator of danger, but it makes him wary all the same.  He gets the feeling he’s not supposed to be here. At least, not by himself. 

 

_ You can handle it, though.  Even if there are people here, you can handle it.  You’re quick. You can incapacitate if you need to.  You’re focused today. Don’t start thinking of other stuff. _

 

It’s still early.  There’s plenty of daylight.  The tremor of exertion in his arms already fading.  There shouldn’t be any harm in poking around.

 

Peter jogs around the large metal building, listening intently for any sounds coming from within.  It seems deserted. And it should be. The two guys he and Mr. Stark had apprehended are probably in jail by now.  But, as Tony had said, it’s always possible there are more. 

 

Peter circles back to the front doors.  They hover open a couple of inches, the lock mechanism still busted from when he’d flown through them.  The fact that it hasn’t been fixed should be significant. 

 

But his thoughts aren’t coming in with clarity.  A layer of haze clings to the edges of Peter’s brain, making him second-guess every idea that passes through.  

 

_ It’s fine.  It’s safe for you to go in and look around.  Right? _

 

It should be.  Sweat beads on Peter’s forehead.  He can feel it soaking into the fabric of his suit.  

 

He pulls one of the heavy doors open.  His core clenches with the effort. 

 

The interior of the warehouse is largely as Peter remembers, though everything is in disarray.  He supposes the fight between the arms dealers and Iron Man succeeded in destroying a few tables.  A spray of washers and bolts glisten on the concrete floor, and Peter carefully sidesteps them as he crosses the large room.  

 

A soft glow of purple catches Peter’s eye, and he spins on the spot.  His head seems to keep moving long after his body stops. He tiptoes over the remains of a splintered desk to an intact tabletop in the corner.  Amongst a mess of clunky tools and computer parts are a handful of twinkling crystals.

 

“Oh, shit,” Peter whispers.  

 

He recognizes those, and their unstable nature is bold in his memory.  And if there are glowy things in here… 

 

_ This isn’t good. _

 

His thoughts take off in a myriad of foggy directions.  The cops have been here. They must’ve confiscated things.  So either novice police didn’t recognize the danger, or someone’s been back.  Working. Hiding things. 

 

And since the building hasn’t exploded, the crystals probably haven’t been here that long.  Someone’s been back. Peter’s sure of it. His cloudy brain tells him he needs to get out of here.

 

He takes off for the back door and practically tumbles off the platform of the delivery bay.  He needs to get a safe distance away. Then he needs to call someone. He needs to call Tony. 

 

_ This is the kind of thing that hurts people.  This is why you patrol. This is why you do this job. _

But as Peter strides away from the warehouse, his legs start to feel like jello.  His upper lip prickles with sweat. Nausea rises in a sudden wave. He needs to get his mask off before he’s sick everywhere, but his arms won’t listen.  His ears are ringing. Glitter appears around the edges of his vision. The ground shifts beneath his feet, and he feels his body begin to fall.

 

***

 

“You ok, man?”  The toe of a dirty boot nudges Peter’s shoulder.

 

“Mm?”  Where is he?  Why does everything hurt?

 

“What happened?”

 

Peter wonders the exact same thing.

 

“You have a bad trip or something?”  A lined face swims into focus above Peter’s head.  The man’s grey hair escapes the confines of his knit beanie.  The smell of marijuana wafts down, increasing Peter’s queasiness.

 

“Aw, god,”  Peter shifts up on his elbow.  “No. I don’t...I don’t do that.”

 

“I’d think you’d have to be a little bit stoned to put on an outfit like that,” the man says.  Peter can see a shopping cart and a bedroll a few feet away.

 

“Yeah, yeah, alright…”  He struggles to get his knees under him, then his feet.  The man extends a hand, and Peter accepts the help. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem, dude.”

 

Peter swallows hard and tries to corral his thoughts.  He was about to do something. Something urgent. 

 

_ Get your head together.  You look stupid. _

 

He still feels sick and shaky.  He’s not entirely convinced he’s not going to hit the ground again.  

 

_ Backtrack.  What were you doing? _

 

“Oh.”  Peter tries to make eye contact with the man through his mask.  “You have to get out of here. That building might be about to explode.”

 

“You sure you didn’t take something bad?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure.  I gotta go. I gotta...make a call.”  Peter swats the guy’s hand away and takes off at an unsteady run.  Once he gets close enough to a street lamp, he shoots a web up to it.  But he misjudges the distance and ends up watching the web flutter toward the horizon until it hits the ground.  

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

His depth perception’s still shot.  Every muscle in his body trembles. He wouldn’t be able to pull himself along on the web anyway.  

 

Peter sends off a text to Mr. Stark as he trudges down the sidewalk.  It takes a few minutes for Tony to respond, but when he does, it’s the generic  _ thanks for the intel, now get the fuck out _ that he’s been expecting.

 

_ You’re still an accessory.  Still something he wants to protect.  You still have a lot of work to do. _

 

_ But come on.   _

 

Peter shakes his aching head at himself.  

 

_ You fainted.   _

 

_ And that’s a problem. _

 

***

 

Peter feels close to collapse after he ascends the stairs to the apartment.  His blood sugar has definitely plummeted lower than it should. May’s not home, so he dumps his backpack in his room and stands in front of the open fridge.  

 

He’s exhausted.  Too tired to think about binging.  None of the food looks good anyway.  

 

Peter grabs an apple and sinks his teeth through the skin.  

 

_ Fruit is sugar and sugar is bad.   _

 

_ But fiber cancels it out. _

 

_ It’s 100 goddamn calories and you passed out today.  Think about something more important. _

 

Peter leans against the counter and closes his eyes as he chews.  A lot’s happened today. Harry might still like him. Or maybe he doesn’t.  A warehouse might be exploding. A crime syndicate might be in full swing.

 

The jagged edges of the apple’s flesh press painfully into his gums.  When he secures a bite and lowers it from his mouth, the fruit is stained with blood.  

 

Peter sighs and takes another mouthful, though now the sweetness is veiled in the bitter taste of copper.


	10. It was over my head, I know nothing at all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter keeps his word

On Saturday, Peter gets patrol out of the way early.  He doesn’t have an invitation to join Tony in the gym or the lab upstate, which is almost as disappointing as not having an invitation to Prom.  

 

Almost.  But not quite.  

 

He slips in through his bedroom window just as the glow of sunset begins to lengthen the shadows outside.  If he were truly dedicated, he’d stay out and wait for the evening crime wave to pick up. But he’s weak to the idea of corn chips in the pantry.  And the idea of watching a parade of borrowed cars ferry his classmates toward the school turns his stomach. 

 

Peter imagines how everything will look.  Harry’s going to be driving some crazy rich-person car.  His dad’s, probably. He’ll have on a tux. Maybe with a white jacket or something, because he just that stylish.  He’ll park in front of the school and walk around the car to open Gwen’s door for her. Because he’s that much of a gentleman, too.  Even for a non-date.

 

_ If you’d gone with him, he’d open your door for you.   _

 

Peter strips out of his Spider-Man suit and heads into the bathroom for a shower.  He keeps his gaze trained downward on his feet as he passes the mirror. He doesn’t want to see his bare stomach or his collarbones or his sloping shoulders… He knows once he looks, he won’t be able to look away.  

 

But the urge to gaze at his reflection is almost as hard to ignore as the urge to stuff his face.  The same words creep through his head, pushing the temptation up to a point where it can’t be ignored.

 

_ A little bit won’t hurt you.   _

 

Peter turns on the shower to give it a minute to warm up, then steps in front of the sink.  The edge of the countertop is hard against his hip bones. He leans in and drinks up the view of his face.  

 

He’s a little sweaty.  A little gaunt. There are dark circles under his eyes, which aren’t what he’d call attractive.  But none of this has been about his face. 

 

Peter moves backward to see as much of his torso as he can in the small mirror.  His eyes are immediately drawn to his ribcage. His skin lays smooth over the hills and valleys of his bones.  A ripple of muscle fills the gap at the front and carries down past his navel, though the mirror doesn’t show that far down.

 

He lays one hand on his stomach.  Steam begins to fill the bathroom, and Peter breathes it in deeply.  He feels his body expand as he inhales, then contract as he lets the air out.  

 

But it’s not contracting enough.  With each breath, his stomach is swelling.  Peter squints at his reflection. He can still feel his abdominals under his hand, but visually, he’s puffing up.  Fat fills in the gaps until he’s too disgusting to look at. 

 

Peter averts his gaze and leans back against the wall.  The mirror’s too fogged up to get another good look anyway. 

 

***

 

The water in the shower runs cold before he’s completely finished, and by the time he pulls a clean sweatshirt over his shivering body, Peter hears May arrive home.

 

“Sorry I had to pull a weekend shift,” she calls, her shoes slapping down the hallway.  

 

Peter throws himself down at his desk and opens Microsoft Word on his computer.  

 

“Homework?”  May asks, peering through the semi-open door.  “They gave you homework on prom weekend? Your teachers are cruel, you know?”

 

“Huh?”  May knows it’s prom?  Peter didn’t tell her that.  Another wave of iciness runs through him, prickling goosebumps down his arms.

 

“Yeah, I know what day it is.”  May gives him a sad smile. “My manager’s been going on for a week about how much his daughter’s dress is costing him.”

 

“I’m not going,” Peter mumbles, stating the obvious.  

 

“You didn’t come asking me for dance advice this time, “ May says.  “I figured.”

 

Peter shrugs.  “It’s ok. I just...didn’t really want to go.”

 

“That’s what I thought…” May takes a step into the bedroom.  “But you’re doing an essay or something. On a Saturday night.”  She gestures at Peter’s wet hair. “You’re all, like, showered and ready for bed.”

 

“No I’m not,” Peter says.  But she’s right. And sleeping through prom night isn’t a bad idea.  Though knowing him, dreams of Harry would probably still haunt him.

 

“You’re turning into more of an old lady than I am,” May says.  “But, come on. You’re a little more down in the dumps than you would be if you just didn’t feel like going.”  She gives Peter a genuinely concerned look. “Did you get turned down?”

 

_ Fuck.  She knows.   _

 

_ No, she doesn’t.  She knows you’re more torn up than you want her to think.  That’s all.  _

 

But the idea of sharing the vulnerability is still hard, even if he doesn’t spill the specifics.

 

_ Why don’t you just tell her?  Come out. Get it over and done with. _

 

_ Because then you’re going to have to lie again.  She’ll think he’s not into you, but he is. You want to be into him, but you can’t.  You’re fat. You’re stupid.  _

 

Peter pinches the skin on the back of his hand between his nails, digging them in as deeply as he can.  

 

“Pete.  Hey.” 

 

He’s been silent too long.  May’s probably filling it in with the answer she wants to hear.  

 

“Girls are stupid,” she says.  “In high school, everyone’s a little bit stupid.  If she wanted to go with some other guy with, I don’t know, a car.  Or a better budget for dinner…” May shakes her head. “She’s missing out.  Bigtime.” 

 

“May,” Peter groans.  “Come on. It’s not about that.  I just didn’t want to go, ok? I didn’t ask anybody.”

 

_ You’re fat.  You’re ugly. You’re stupid.   _

 

_ You should’ve said yes. _

 

“Do you miss Liz?” May asks, a note of gentle sadness imbuing her tone.  “I know you two had a lot of fun at homecoming, and then she had to move…”

 

No, it’s not about the girl who moved away.  It’s about the boy who moved back. And maybe if he hadn’t, Peter would’ve gone to prom with Ned as friends.  Maybe they’d have taken MJ and had a nice awkward time. 

 

_ A gay old time… _

 

“Fuck,” Peter says under his breath.

 

“I didn’t hear that,” May says.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No, you’re upset.  Say whatever you want.”  May leans against the wall.  “I know you don’t want to talk to me about it.  And that’s fine. But I know you’re feeling down.  And I don’t want you to.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter mutters again.

 

“Don’t apologize for having feelings.  It’s alright.” She tries out a smile. “Really.  Whatever. It’s alright.”

 

It’s really not, though.  

 

_ Tell her you like a boy.  Tell her you’re starving yourself.  Tell her you’re Spider-Man.  _

 

_ Is that alright? _

 

Peter lets out his breath and shakes his head.  He realizes too late he probably should have nodded.

 

“How about I take you for dinner?” May suggests.  She steps behind Peter’s desk chair and drops her hands on his shoulders, squeezing the muscles at the top of his back.  “You’re tense. You need to relax, dude.”

 

“Hey, stop.”  Peter toes the rolling chair forward.

 

_ She can’t do that.  She’s going to think you’re too bony. _

 

_ You _ are _ too bony. _

 

_ No.  You’re fat. _

 

“Ok, touchy.”  May throws her hands up and backs off.  “Let’s go for dinner. Somewhere lame where there aren’t any prom couples.  How about burgers and fries at the bowling alley? You haven’t absolutely killed me at bowling in a while.”

 

_ Burgers and fries.  Fat. Carbs. Gluten.  Grease.  _

 

Peter’s stomach clenches all over again. 

 

The food sounds delicious.  But he can’t eat that kind of thing.  Not with May around. 

 

“I don’t know, May.”  Peter slumps forward with his elbows on his knees.  “I just...I want to stay in tonight.”

 

“Mm,” May gives a sympathetic hum.  “Yeah. I get it. I don’t like the idea of you pouting in your room by yourself, though.”  She shifts back to the wall. “How ‘bout I make some snacks? We can play Monopoly or something.  You can invite Ned if you want. He hasn’t been around in a while.”

 

_ She doesn’t think Ned would go to prom without you.  _

 

Peter realizes he doesn’t actually know if Ned decided to go.  “Naw. He’s probably...busy.”

 

“Ok.  Grilled cheese and tomato soup in half an hour.  And I want to be the dog.” May turns toward the door.  “If you take too long, I’ll make you be the iron.” She laughs, probably hoping Peter will join in.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Yeah, sure.”  He resigns himself to a bloated stomach for the evening.  

 

_ You deserve it. _

 

_ You deserve it for the rest of your life.   _

 

May pads out toward the kitchen, and Peter lets out his breath.  He looks at the blank word document on his screen for a moment, then reaches for his phone.  He swipes through his saved photos until he finds the screenshot of the text from Harry. The only tangible record of their communication.

 

_ Glad you’re feeling better. —Harry _

 

Peter stares at it until the words are burned into his eyes.  But it only makes him feel worse.

 

***

 

On Monday, Peter keeps his eyes lowered when he slides into his seat in the chemistry classroom.  Ned’s already stationed at his edge of their lab bench. They’ve been giving each other the silent treatment for a while now, but today it seems even more awkward.  

 

The entire school has been buzzing about prom since the first bell rang.  And probably before that. The topic hangs in the air as Peter unloads his backpack onto the table.

 

_ You didn’t lie to him after all.  You really didn’t go. _

 

_ Doesn’t mean he’s ready to put it all behind you, though.  In fact, it’s probably better if you’re still not speaking.  That way you don’t have to explain anything. _

 

“So,” Ned hesitantly breaks the silence.  “You didn’t go to prom.” 

 

It’s as if he’s read Peter’s mind.  Though Peter hopes he hasn’t.

 

“Yeah.  I just didn’t really want to.”  He isn’t sure what inflection to put on the words.  

 

_ What are you doing?  You don’t need to be anxious right now. _

 

Things have never been awkward with Ned.  

 

“I have to admit it was kind of lame to be there alone.  I didn’t dance with anyone,” Ned admits. 

 

“Did you hang out with people?” Peter asks.  

 

_ Did Harry go?  Did he go with someone? _

 

Ned shrugs.  “I sat around with MJ for a little bit.”

 

“Was it a good time?”

 

_ Come on.  Come on. You can’t ask about the specifics.  How’s that going to look?. _

 

“We just watched people come in, mostly.  And like, laughed at their outfits and stuff.”

 

“Oh.”

 

_ Come on, Ned. _

 

“Did you, uh, see a lot of people we know?” Peter asks, his voice going higher.  He clears his throat.

 

_ Yeah, go all gossip girl, why don’t you? _

 

“Gwen, uh, went with Harry,” Ned says apologetically.  “I didn’t know if you knew that. Or, like, wanted to know that.”

 

“Oh.  That’s…”  

 

_ Good.  Exactly what you want to hear.   _

 

Ned must still think Peter’s sweet on Gwen.

 

_ Harry said they might go together if they didn’t get real dates.   _

 

Satisfaction swells as a sour bubble in Peter’s throat.  So he hadn’t gotten a real date. Peter wonders if he asked anyone else.

 

_ If he’s still as hung up on you as you are on him…   _

 

“Yeah,” Ned sighs.  “It’s all drama.” He plays with the sharp end on his spiral notebook.  “Did you do something fun instead?”

 

“No.  Just homework.  Hung out with May.”  

 

_ And got fat.   _

 

Even though the half-sandwich he’d choked down is long since digested, Peter can still feel it resting against the waistband of his jeans.  

 

“Even that sounds better than going to a dance alone.”  There’s a hint of...something. A wistfulness. An expectation for Peter to say something back.  Like, “ _ of course, buddy.  I’ll never stop talking to you again.”   _

 

But it’s not a promise Peter can make.  

 

***

 

When the bell rings to signal the end of the day, Peter throws his things into his backpack joins the throng of students escaping into the afternoon sunlight.  

 

Responsibility and temptation battle it out in his head.  He needs to patrol. And he will. But he’s also starving.  May’s Saturday-night grilled cheese went down a little too easily, and the craving for bread and MSG is hard to quash.  

 

It’s been close to two months since Peter’s picked up a sandwich after school.  He mulls over the idea of returning to the tradition, snarfing down a panini while he prepares for patrol.  He won’t keep it down, of course, but the nostalgia of it seems nice. Especially since he and Ned are speaking again.  

 

Peter pulls his phone out of his pocket as he navigates the familiar route.  A smattering of text notifications show up on the lock screen, and he squints to read them against the outdoor glare.

  
There are a few from Happy.  When he hadn’t answered, it seems like Mr. Stark sent a few more from his personal number.  All the messages say some form of the same thing:  _ Want to kick some crime syndicate ass? _


	11. Are we not good enough?  Are we not brave enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter fails

Peter changes into his suit and paces the alley, waiting for Happy to come pick him up.  He kicks his backpack around a couple times like a lopsided soccer ball, then resorts to doing pull-ups on the edge of the fire escape above his head.  Peter forgets his hunger as pre-mission nervous energy rises in full swing.

 

The black SUV pulls up to the curb within minutes, and Peter barely has a chance to situate himself before his phone lights up with a FaceTime call from Tony.

 

“Hey,” Peter answers.  He pulls off his mask and holds the phone out in front of him.  The view of Mr. Stark’s face is close up and oddly static. “Do you have a webcam in your suit?”

 

“Yeah.  Pepper likes me to keep in touch on long flights,” Tony says.  “And don’t ask if we can install one in yours. The answer’s no.”

 

“Alright, alright.  I wasn’t gonna ask,” Peter says.  “What’s going on with the mission?”  His hand is shaking slightly, and he hopes the view Mr. Stark is getting isn’t too jittery.

 

“Ok.  So. Here’s the situation.” Tony gets right down to business.  “After you texted about the glowy shit, I jammed on down there and had FRIDAY take some readings.  So we have an exact energy signature on that type of crystal, or whatever it is. And we’re able to track its movements anywhere in the state.”

 

“Wow.  That’s...really impressive.”

 

“I’m working on nation-wide, but we’re stuck at the state level for now.  So you better hope these guys aren’t headed for Jersey or Philly..”

 

“So they’re on the move?” Peter deduces.  “With tech?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Tony confirms.  “They’re in some mystery machine stoner van, going seven miles per hour above the speed limit.  And listening to Taylor Swift on satellite radio.”

 

Peter laughs.  “Really?”

 

“Yeah.  I’m almost convinced they know I’m listening in. Totally trying to make my ears bleed.”

 

Peter giggles again.  

 

_ Ok.  Focus.  Keep your head in the game.  _

 

“Are these the same guys as at the warehouse?  Or is it a bigger operation?” he asks.

 

“Please don’t get me started…” Tony rolls his eyes and gives his head a miniscule shake.  “Natasha hacked the police records from when they got picked up. And it looks like they’re out on bail.  I don’t know how to get it through people’s heads. That’s not the way to deal with thugs that are a danger to the community!”

 

“Wow.  Yeah.” Peter says.  “How far out are they?  And what’s the plan of attack once we get to them?”

 

“A little ways outside the city.  If Happy steps on it, you’ll catch up to them in 15 minutes or so.  I’ll probably get them in my sights a little sooner, but I’ll hover till you show up.  And Natasha should be joining us. I believe her Harley Davidson has left the garage.”

 

“Ok.  And when we all get there...?”

 

“Incapacitate the perps and secure the cargo, kid.  Not a complicated premise, but I don’t like the idea of tech like this being loose.  That’s why we’ve all got to be each other’s backup.”

 

Peter’s heart flutters as he mentally repeats the words.  

 

_ Incapacitate.  Be each other’s backup.   _

 

Tony’s treating him like they’re really working together.  On the front lines.

 

“Yeah, I got it.”

 

***

 

The van is on its side in the middle of an overpass.  Iron Man hovers above the surface of the street and shoots a bright repulsor beam toward someone ducking behind the downed vehicle’s front tires.  

 

Happy pulls over on the shoulder of the highway.  Peter opens door and steps out of the car, unsure of how to jump into the combat. 

 

“I guess I’ll just circle the block,” Happy grumbles.  

 

Peter laughs nervously and stands in the strip of grass at the edge of the road while he waits for the SUV to depart.  

 

“Alright, kid,” Tony’s voice sounds suddenly in Peter’s ear.  

 

“What?”  Peter jumps in surprise.

 

“I just engaged your comm remotely.  Isn’t that cool?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”  Peter bounces on the balls of his feet.  “Where do you want me?”

 

_ That’s a stupid thing to ask.  You’re all supposed to be equals on this mission, remember? _

 

“Well, the name of the game is disarm.  But watch yourself. These fuckers are fighting back this time.”

 

“Ok.  I will,” Peter says.  He clenches his fists, ignoring the film of sweat soaking into the palms of his gloves.  

 

He backs up a few steps and shoots a web up to a road sign positioned above the highway.  He hauls himself a few feet up the line and swings, landing in a crouch on top of the van’s dented door.  

 

“Yo, anybody home in here?”  Peter stamps his foot in an attempt to knock.  The driver’s door is open, and he peers inside.  A mess of fast-food trash litters the front seats, and the lingering smell of grease and salt makes Peter’s mouth water.

 

_ Don’t think about food.  Maybe later. If you do well, you can pick something up on the way home. _

 

_ Shut up. _

 

_ Don’t think about that. _

 

A multicolored glow filters from the back of the van like a contained set of northern lights.  Peter leans around the driver’s seat to get a better look. Purple crystals are scattered over the floor.  Peter counts at least six gun-like objects, as well as a host of glowing green and orange things he doesn’t recognize.

 

He does recognize that the stuff is dangerous.  And probably a ticking time bomb. “There are a bunch of weapons in here,” Peter says over the comm.  “And stuff that could probably explode.”

 

“Noted,” a new voice says.  A feminine one. Natasha must’ve arrived.  Peter thinks he can hear the dull roar of a motorcycle.

 

“I’m gonna tie it up the best I can,” Peter says.  

 

_ Be confident.  Make your own choices. _

 

He clambers through the gap between the front seats, trying not to inhale the scent of French fries.  Peter shoots webs in every direction, trapping every object in the back of the van to a surface. At least it’ll be harder for the criminals to get ahold of any of it.

 

He kicks through the vehicle’s back windshield and looks around.  Iron Man flies low overhead, and Peter quickly bends his knees to avoid being taken out.  

 

“Heads up,” Tony says, too late.

 

“Yep.”  Peter jumps up, though the wind from the flyby still has him staggering.  He looks around for his next task. “How many are we dealing with?”

 

“Three, it looks like,” Nat’s voice says.  “Wanna take one off Tony? He’s showing off doing the two-on-one thing.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Peter says.  Iron Man has his arms crossed, a repulsor beam emanating from each hand.  He moves his head back and forth between targets.

 

“Totally have it covered,” Tony says over the comm link.  “But if you really want one…” He swings around in midair and physically kicks one of the gun-waving criminals.  The man falls on his ass and drops his weapon. “There you go.”

 

“Thanks,” Peter murmurs.  He jogs forward and looses a volley of webs at the gun first, securing it to the pavement out of the criminal’s reach.  The arms dealer glares up at Peter. He’s wearing a black ski mask, but Peter’s sure it’s the same guy he faced off against at the warehouse.  Overweight. Sluggish.

 

Peter shoots another web, this one sticking the criminal’s foot to the ground.

 

“You think I’m going down that easy?” he laughs, pointing threateningly up at Peter.

 

Peter webs one of the man’s hands to the asphalt.  

 

_ Be confident. _

 

He considers for a second.  “Actually, yeah.”

 

“Well.”  The arms dealer digs his free hand into his pocket.  He keeps his fist closed. Peter can’t see what he’s holding.  

 

“Think again.”  The man makes as if to throw whatever it is at Peter, and he instinctively ducks.  But at the last second, he changes direction and lobs it at the van.

 

The world changes to slow motion as Peter watches a flicker of purple soar over the highway and disappear into the open driver’s side door.

 

“Shit,” Peter hisses.  As soon as the curse leaves his mouth, the front of the van bursts into flames.

 

“It’s gonna explode!” he shouts.  “I don’t know if the webs are gonna hold!  The whole thing’s gonna blow!”

 

Silence falls as everyone pauses to look at the impending disaster.  

 

And then a different sound cuts through the still air.  A distant, excited whoop. 

 

“Whoa, is that Iron Man?”

 

“This is so cool!”

 

They have an audience?  Peter suddenly becomes aware of the smaller road crossing under the highway.  Shadowy figures stand below, pointing upward at the action.

 

“Fuck.”  Tony beams his opponent in the face and looks to Peter.  “Come on, kid. New priority.” He flips to horizontal and zooms over the guardrail toward the sound of the voices.

 

Peter gives the flaming van a last worried glance and follows Tony at a sprint.  He webs off another road sign and lands in a patch of dirt beside the crumbling edge of the street.  His legs feel weak as he takes off running. Panic tingles through his chest and forms a lump in his throat.  

 

“Get the fuck out of here!” Tony yells, swooping down on the small group of people.  

 

They’re kids.  Peter’s age. Or maybe younger.  There are four or five of them, some clutching skateboards.  All of them now wide-eyed as their superhero idol curses at them.

 

“You heard him.  Get away! It’s gonna explode!  It’s not safe!” Peter can barely get the words out.

 

Two of the kids take off running back the way they came.  

 

“Good.  Go on, follow your friends,” Tony says to the remaining two who still stand there, transfixed.  

 

They still don’t move.  One girls’ mouth starts to gape.  Peter follows her gaze up to the van on the overpass.  Flames in all shades of red and yellow engulf the vehicle’s outline.  

 

“Ok.  Come on.”  Tony grabs her around the waist and sacks her over his shoulder.  He flies upward first, then down the street, away from the danger.

 

“You got the other one?” he asks over the comm.  

 

“Yeah, on it,” Peter says.  He reaches for the other girl’s hand.  “We gotta go,” he tells her.

 

The weight of the situation seems to finally hit her.  A look of terror passes over her face, and she snatches her hand away and starts running.  

 

But she’s going the wrong way.  She pounds toward the tunnel under the highway instead of away from it.

 

All Peter can do is take off after her.

 

“Hey, stop!” he shouts.  Peter wonders what kind of panicked stupidity is running through her brain.

 

_ Probably not so different from what’s running through yours. _

 

She’s almost at the underpass.  Peter desperately shoots a web at the back of her t-shirt, but it flies an inch too far to the left.  His hands are shaking.

 

_ You can’t fall apart right now.  You can’t. _

 

The girl darts into the tunnel and turns to look over her shoulder.  She furrows her brows at the sight of Peter on her tail.

 

“You’re not protected here!  It’s all gonna blow up!” But Peter’s voice is barely above a wheeze.  “You have to… Get out of here…” He reaches again for her wrist.

 

A deafening explosion booms overhead.  The entire underpass trembles, dust and bits of gravel raining from the concrete ceiling.  Peter’s heart stutters with the echo of the noise. His ears ring, and time suspends like still water.

 

Fear sparks again in the girl’s eyes.  

 

“Come on!” But the sound of cracking rock buries Peter’s shout.  Boulders of asphalt appear from nowhere. The girl’s face doesn’t change from its mask of fear as a chunk of rock catches the side of her head and she crumples under more of the avalanche.   

 

“No!” Peter screams.  Even through the filter of his mask, he’s breathing in dust.

 

“Kid?”  The voice is doubly loud, coming in both through the comm in his ear and through the avalanche of rock.  Iron Man’s arms lock around Peter’s chest and yank him upward. Disorientation hits as Peter’s feet leave the ground.  

 

The facts of where he is in time and space rush up to meet him, along with a patch of damp grass.  Tony lets go of him and touches down softly at Peter’s side. 

 

_ Where is she?  Where’d she go?  What did you do? _

 

Peter struggles to his feet and staggers a couple of steps before dizziness drops him to his knees again.

 

“You’re safe now, ok?”  Another set of hands latches around his elbow.  Petite ones in black gloves. “Stay put,” Nat says.

 

“But… I…” Peter chokes.  His throat is tight, and pressure threatens to burst from behind his eyes.  He’s going to cry. He’s going to throw up. Nat’s arms tighten around him, holding him still as adrenaline leaches out of him.

 

“There’s nothing you can do.  Just stay here. Stay safe.” Tony says.  

 

Peter lifts his head.  Mr. Stark removes his faceplate and looks solemnly into the eyes of Peter’s mask.  “You did alright, ok? Don’t worry about it.”

 

“But… Is she...?”

 

Tony bites his lip.  “There’s...nothing lighting up on the radar.  I’m not gonna lie to you. The heat signature’s fading fast.”

 

Peter stares at him in silence.

 

_ You fucked up.  You failed. You let someone… _

 

Tony looks to Nat.  “I’m gonna see about moving some of the rubble.  So fire and rescue have a better path to the… you know.”

 

He’s not even going to say it.  As if Peter doesn’t know what he means.  

 

_ The body.  Of the girl.  The one you killed.  You know… _

 

A convulsive sob rises from Peter’s chest, and he clutches his face in his hands.  He scrabbles his nails down his cheeks, but his gloves and mask are too thick a barrier for him to feel anything.  

 

“It’s ok,” Nat says.  “It’s ok. Breathe.”

 

Peter tries.  But the heaving waves of emotion rising from his chest make it difficult to do anything but cry.  His heart pounds like he’s sprinted a marathon.  __

 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…   _

 

It’s easier to count than to try to think.

 

“It’s something we all feel,” Nat says after a while.  She pats his arm. “When you’re up to it, we’ll go back to the compound.  Talk about it if you want. Or ignore it if you don’t. Maybe order some bad takeout.  Or have you ever had Pepper’s hot chocolate?”

 

Peter’s stomach aches with hunger, and he immediately feels all the guiltier for it.  

 

_ How can you possibly think about food?  You killed someone. _

 

_ Nat’s just trying to help.  You’re just trying to let her. _

 

_ You fucked up.  You were too slow. _

 

Peter swats Nat’s hands away and gets to his feet.

 

_ You ran out of energy. _

 

_ You’re slow.  You’re fat. You’re stupid… _

 

“No, don’t go over there.  Tony’s got it covered,” she says, reaching for Peter’s hand.  Just as he’d stupidly reached for the girl’s hand earlier. 

 

“Don’t worry,” Peter chokes, swallowing down a sob.  “I’m not.” He turns away from the collapsed overpass and shoots a web up to the nearest streetlamp.

 

***

 

It takes almost an hour for Peter to swing himself back into the city, but the time has no meaning to him.  He’s just eager to be somewhere loud enough to drown out his thoughts. 

 

_ You as good as killed her.  You killed her.  _

 

It echoes over and over again.  

 

He webs through Queens, looking for a place to stop.  Regroup. 

 

Peter doesn’t want to go to his apartment.  Not yet. It doesn’t matter that it’s well after dark and he still hasn’t been home from school.  It doesn’t matter that May’s probably worried sick. 

 

_ You’re sick.  You’re stupid.  You killed her. _

 

He pauses on the roof of the fire station, listening to the alarm within sound loud enough to burst his eardrums.  But then sirens start up, and Peter’s reminded of destruction again. 

 

Bright flames licking the sides of the downed van.  A stricken face. A cascade of jagged rock.

 

She probably screamed. __

 

_ But you didn’t pay enough attention to hear it. _

 

He shoots another web and swings across two streets before he starts to think again about where he’s going.  

 

The route is familiar, though Peter’s never traveled it by this means.  It makes him feel guiltier when he considers how long it’s been since he’s been to Ned’s apartment at all.  Before comfort started to come from clean magazine pages and abuse of his stomach, it came from his friend. It feels like years have passed since then.

 

_ He won’t want to play a video game or build a lego set with you.  Not in the middle of the night. Not when you’re barely talking again.  Not when you just killed someone. _

 

Peter’s mind is sluggish as he does the math and figures which window is Ned’s.  He crawls up the side of the building and pulls himself onto the narrow ledge, trying not to breathe too hard.  He draws his knees up to his chest, tremors rattling his limbs. 

 

Ned’s asleep, propped against the pillows on his bed, a playstation controller lax in his hand.  Dim bluish light comes from the TV. It shows the pause screen for  _ Ocarina of Time _ .

 

Ned’s going to get it if his mom finds out he was playing video games this late on a school night.  Peter almost laughs. He wishes his life was riddled with problems that simple.

 

But he killed someone today.

 

_ If only you’d been a little faster.  A little sleeker gliding through the air.  A little tighter on your landings… _

 

Peter aches to wake Ned up, to spend half the night spilling and crying to someone who really knows him.  Someone who knew him before he was Spider-Man.

 

But he can’t dump this on another kid.  Ned won’t know what to do. And it’s too big an issue to bring up when the ice between them has barely cracked.

 

Cracked like the ceiling of the underpass, about to collapse into a million pieces.

 

Peter chokes against the pressure of sobs rattling in his ribcage.  He shoots a web and slides down to the street.


	12. Everything’s my fault, I take all the blame.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter takes a break

When his alarm goes off at six in the morning, Peter can barely muster the energy to silence it.  He grabs his phone off the bedside table and rolls into a fetal position. He opens the clock app and turns off his wake-up call not only for the day, but for good.  He tries not to think as he shoves the device under his pillow and squeezes his eyes closed. But there’s nothing he can do to keep the weight of what happened last night from raining down and burying him again.  

 

Just like the crumbled pieces of concrete and metal fell from the destroyed underpass.

 

_ You were too slow.  Too weak.  _

 

_ If you would train and patrol instead of eating snacks.  Lose those last couple pounds… _

 

_ Stop making it all about you.  Somebody died yesterday.  _

 

_ But it’s all your fault. _

 

Peter can still see her face, brows raised, a smile beginning to perk the corners of her thin lips even as terror reflected in her eyes.  He only saw her face for a slow-motion second, and he struggles to fill in the details that suddenly feel important. 

 

She was young, maybe in junior high.  Strands of long hair flipped around her face with the force of the whirlwind of destruction.  Was it brown? Or red? Did she have freckles? Acne? Peter isn’t sure. 

 

_ You as good as killed her.  The least you can do is remember her. _

 

Peter’s face crumples as he tries not to let tears fall.  But they do anyway. He snatches a handful of bedding and presses it into his face.

 

“Hey.  You ok?”  May taps on the door.  He’s usually up and moving by this time, so she has a right to be worried.  But it doesn’t mean Peter wants to see her.

 

_ What are you going to say?  Another lie? Make her think all this is because you didn’t go to prom?   _

 

_ That’s fucking shallow. _

 

“Pete?”  May opens the door.  

 

Peter still has his face covered.  He pretends to be asleep.

 

“Wake up, bud.  It’s time for school.”  May’s footsteps cross the room, and the bed tips as she sits on the edge of the mattress to shake his shoulder.  “Hey. Come on.”

 

“I don’t feel good,” Peter groans.  It’s true. May doesn’t need to know that the pain’s in his soul instead of his head or his stomach.

 

“Do you have a test today or something?  I know you had kind of a late night…” She pats Peter’s arm.

 

_ She knows.  Of course she does. _

 

_ She only knows you came home late.  She doesn’t actually know anything. _

 

“That wouldn't happen to have anything to do with this, would it?”

 

Peter sighs into the covers.  “Come on, May. I just… I really…”

 

“Hey.”  It comes out gentle enough.  She hooks one finger under the edge of the quilt and pulls it down an inch.  “Do I get to see you?”

 

Peter reluctantly opens his eyes.  The light streaming between the crooked slats in the blinds may as well be from a laser.  It encourages the welling tears to continue to fall.

 

May’s gaze meets his, and concerned lines show on her forehead.  Peter’s vision is blurred, but he watches the expression take shape.  Just like he watched the girl’s face last night.

 

The dead girl.  

 

_ It’s your fault. _

 

May lets out a quiet sigh.  She presses the backs of her knuckles under Peter’s chin.  “Alright,” she murmurs. “I’m… I’m gonna get a thermometer, ok?”  She smooths the blankets over Peter’s arm, then stands and leaves. May lifts her glasses to wipe her own eyes before she makes it over the threshold.  

 

_ You didn’t even say anything and you’re still lying. _

 

Peter doesn’t think he’s feverish.  A slight throb is awakening behind his sinuses, but he’s become a connoisseur of headaches lately.  He knows it’s only the echo of the sledgehammer hits of emotion.

 

_ May sees you cry and she makes assumptions.  That’s on her. She’s trying to take care of you. _

 

You’re manipulative.  You’re stupid.

 

“Alright,” May says again when she reappears.  She holds the thermometer in front of Peter’s face.  “Open up.”

 

Peter obliges, ignoring the way warm tears are flowing down into his mouth.

 

“There you go.”  May tucks the rod under his tongue, then rubs his shoulder again while she waits for it to beep.

 

When it finally does, she doesn’t tell Peter what the numbers say.  She hesitates a moment, then exhales slowly. “I’ll call you into school, ok?  You just...get some rest.” May holds the thermometer between her palms. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a little bit.”

 

_ You don’t have a fever.  Now she’s lying for you. _

 

Peter struggles to find his voice.  “Ok.” 

 

***

 

The cover of sleep would be welcome, but Peter can’t calm his mind enough to drift off again.  The tea May brought sits untouched on his bedside table. He should take a few sips. Hydration will do him good.  Sitting up and grabbing the mug will burn a calorie or two. But he can’t muster the motivation to shift from his cocoon of warm self-hatred.

 

Peter’s phone begins to ring from under his pillow.  Who calls him these days? He moves only his arm as he retrieves the device.  As expected, Mr. Stark’s name flashes on the screen.

 

_ You deserve to be chewed out.  _

 

He’d give almost anything for a call from somebody else.  From Ned. From Harry. 

 

_ As if you’d even pick up. _

 

“Hello,” Peter answers.  He’s so tired. He practically balances the phone on his cheekbone.

 

“What’s going on, kid?” Tony asks.  “How you doing?”

 

Peter doesn’t reply.  He swallows a film of snot as tears begin to rise again.

 

“I know yesterday was rough and you’re not at school today.  Which, I mean, it makes sense,” Tony says. He pauses for a moment, acknowledging the fact that he’s not saying the words.  

 

Peter breathes shakily over the line.

 

“But, I gotta ask.  What’s wrong with you?”

 

“I...what?” Peter murmurs through the threat of a sob.

 

_ You knew this was coming. _

 

“I-I’m not fast enough.”  He squeezes his eyes shut.  “Not strong enough. I let someone die…”  Peter holds the phone tightly to his face with one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other.

 

“Aw, kid.  I didn’t mean…” Mr. Stark sighs.  “I mean in general. What’s wrong?  You’ve been slipping, even before last night.”  He pauses again. “Why are you acting like this?” 

 

_ No.  No. Please stop. _

 

“Like…?”  Peter’s voice catches.

 

“Like you’re getting reckless,” Tony says.  “Just because you’re protected from direct hits with your suit upgrades doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want.”

 

“I...I didn’t mean to.”  Peter wants to say more. But the fresh wave of tears doesn’t let him.

 

_ Didn’t mean to let her die. _

 

_ Didn’t mean to be reckless. _

 

_ Didn’t mean for any of this to affect anyone. _

 

_ See, all about you, you selfish bastard.  You’re nothing, Parker. Nothing. _

 

“I think,” Mr. Stark starts heavily, “I think it’s a good time for a break.  If this is gonna give you too much stress or...whatever it is… Maybe you need to take a step back.”

 

“What?” Peter breathes.

 

“Hang up the suit for a few weeks.  Trust me, I don’t like it any more than you do.  But, I think it’s what we both need. A little space.”

 

“No...”  It comes out as a choked whisper.

 

“Yes.  I’m sorry.  But this isn’t working right now,” Tony says.  “I’m here if you want to talk. About the mission or about school or about anything.  Ok? Call me anytime.” He pauses. “But before you put that suit on again...wait for me to call you.”

 

Peter can’t answer. He can barely breathe.  How fitting that he’s getting a breakup speech.  Nausea blooms for the first time today. 

 

“Ok, kid?”

 

_ No.  It’s not ok.   _

 

_ But it’s what you deserve. _

 

“Hm.”  Peter lets his chest rise and fall shallowly a few times.  “Ok.”

 

***

 

In the middle of the afternoon, May comes to check on him again.  Peter realizes, with another pang of horrific guilt, that she must not have gone to work today.

 

“You didn’t have to, like, stay home with me,” he mumbles.  

 

“Mm.”  May drags Peter’s desk chair over.  She sits and folds her hands in her lap.  “Maybe I just needed a day off too.”

 

_ She’s going to have a talk with you.   _

 

Peter arranges himself flat on his back.  He blinks up at the ceiling, his eyes gritty and sore.  

 

“You still not feeling so good?” May asks.

 

He isn’t.  His body is heavy, like each bone in his skeleton has been replaced with a lead replica.  He occupies too much space. It’s taking too long for the regret from last night to eat its way through his heart and soul.

 

“Not really.”  Peter shakes his head.  

 

May eyes the full mug on the bedside table.  “You need to drink something. Dehydration’s only going to make things worse.”

 

“Yeah…”  He knows.  

 

_ Dehydration also causes bloating.   _

 

Peter’s stomach tightens.  

 

_ It makes you feel hungry.  Can contribute to weight gain. _

 

“And you haven’t eaten yet today.”  May presses.

 

“I’m ok,” Peter says quickly.  “My stomach isn’t so great…”

 

“Well, whatever you’re fighting, it’s not getting better if you don’t keep your strength up.”

 

_ She has a point.  With all the energy you spent yesterday, you can’t go on forever without having something.  Your muscles will break down. Your heart will stop… _

 

_ But isn’t that what you want in the end?  Now that you’ve gone and proven yourself so worthless on missions, Mr. Stark doesn’t even want you along.  All you do is get people killed. _

 

“Pete.”  May leans forward, her elbows propped on the edge of the bed.  “I know you’re having a hard time. And I’m not the coolest person to talk to.  But you have to tell me what’s going on.” 

 

Peter can’t look at her as she continues.  “Did you have a fight with Ned? Or are you still thinking about Ben a lot?”  May pauses, presumably to give Peter a chance to respond. 

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Is it, I don’t know.  Is this about the prom?”

 

“No.”  Peter rolls to face away from her.  “It’s not.” But his eyes well up and his voice cracks in a way that May’s sure to take to mean it is.

 

“Oh, sweetheart.”  May sighs and bends down to give him an awkward hug.  “Believe it or not, I’ve been to high school. I know how hard it is.  But lying in bed isn’t the way to handle this.”

 

_ Lying in bed.  Lying your life away.   _

 

Peter digs his nails into the back of his hand under the sheets.  He takes deep breaths, convincing his body not to contract into a new explosion of sobs.

 

“Alright.  Come on.” May pats his shoulder.  “Put on some clothes.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I still owe you dinner out to make up for prom night.  Let’s go.”

 

Peter doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s too early for dinner.  He doesn’t feel well. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He relays all of it with a groan.

 

“I know,” May says.  “We’ll walk across the street for some egg drop soup.  Maybe some fried rice. I know it sounds like it’s gonna suck, but it’ll do you good.”

 

Peter doesn’t even have the drive to say _ “no, thanks.” _

 

May refuses to leave the room until Peter’s feet are on the floor, and even then she only retreats to the hall outside his door.  Peter pulls a pair of sweatpants from a marginally-clean pile on the floor, uncovering the container of Lysol wipes in its hiding spot.  

 

As he stares down at them, he feels filthy.  He’s told too many lies. Ruined too many lives.  And he’s pretty sure he didn’t shower last night. Peter strips off his pajama shirt and uses one of the lemon-fresh cloths to wipe off his upper body.  He smooths it over the prominent rungs of his ribs and over his arms. The scrapes on the back of his hand go red and begin to sting, but it doesn’t bother him.  It actually feels kind of good.

 

***

 

Peter heads to school the next day with a paper bag of Thai leftovers clutched in his hand.  May had insisted he take them for lunch, and Peter’s mind has been a blur of possible ulterior motives since she handed them over.

 

_ She’s suspicious.   _

 

_ She wants you to get fat.   _

 

_ Calm down.  She just cares. _

 

Peter hasn’t decided yet if he wants to binge on them, so carries the bag into the school with him and stows it in his locker before he sets off to wander the halls alone before his first class.  Nobody comes up to say they missed him today. Not even Ned. So much for mending things with him.

 

As he walks, Peter sees the light on in the computer lab.  It’s as good a place as any to hide from the majority of the student body.  He can pretend to be printing out a current events article for history or something.  The news has almost certainly picked up on the destroyed underpass by now, and morbid curiosity itches at the back of his mind.  

 

He sits at a workstation and navigates to the website for the Daily Bugle.  As expected, one of the stories on the virtual front page reads  _ Arms dealers involved in road collapse _ .  Peter squeezes his eyes shut as he clicks on the article.  

 

It’s slow to load on the school’s shitty internet connection, and Peter skims the text as it appears.  It’s not interesting. Just the most basic of facts. Arms dealers. Illegal tech. Fight with Avengers.  Underpass collapse. One casualty. 

 

_ Which was your fault. _

 

The paragraphs jump down a few spaces on the screen as the article’s pictures belatedly show up.  There’s one shot of the underpass, full of jagged boulders of concrete and surrounded by police cars.  A grainy flash of red in one corner might belong to Tony’s Iron Man suit.

 

Peter scrolls down to see the next image.  Nausea wells up when it pixelates into view.  

 

It’s a school picture.  There’s a name under it, but Peter doesn’t want to know what it says.  He can only take her happy gaze for a moment before he has to look away.

 

_ You as good as killed her.  The least you can do is remember her. _

 

Peter prints out the article, pictures and all.  He folds it up and slips it in his pocket.

 

At lunch, he gets it out and re-reads the bland description of the incident while he shovels cold fried rice down his throat.  He recites the article over again from memory while he kneels on the bathroom floor and throws it back up.

 

When Peter gets home, he unfolds the page and lays it on top of the stack of magazines in his desk drawer alongside the other bits of information he doesn’t want to forget.


	13. Promise not to stop when I say when.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the world comes crashing down

 

 

Two weeks pass in silence.  Peter goes to school and comes home.  He jogs up the stairs to his apartment until his heart hammers.  Then he works on his homework until he can’t stand it anymore and he has to abandon his books in favor of standing in the pantry and inhaling some cereal or Pop Tarts or cookies.  He stops caring about gluten and dairy so much since nothing stays in his stomach for more than a few minutes. He’s gotten so good at purging that the most time-intensive part is washing his hands afterward.

 

Today the craving for sweetness hits as Peter’s finishing up a page of algebra problems.  __

 

_ When you finish this next problem.  Then you can get something.  _

 

But it’s a lot harder to focus on writing down the numbers with the thought of chocolate melting over his conscious brain.

 

He flips his pencil to erase a mistake, then almost jumps out of his skin as his phone rings.  It’s been a while since he’s gotten a call, or even a text. He’s practically forgotten what his ringtone sounds like.

 

Mr. Stark’s name comes up on the device’s screen.

 

_ Oh shit. _

 

_ Well, it’s a good thing you haven’t eaten yet. _

 

“Hello?” Peter answers the call.

 

“Hey, kid,” Tony says.  “I know you’re taking a break, so I hate to spring this on you…”

 

“It’s ok.  What’s up?”

 

Are they finally putting the last mission behind them?  Peters heart pounds as the prospect of returning his life to normal fills him with excitement.

 

“We need all hands on deck.  The dickwads with the tech are on the move again, and I think we’ve figured out where they’re headed.”  Tony pauses for a second. “You want to crash those creeps’ sales meeting? For good this time?”

 

The phone shakes in Peter’s hand.  He’s not thinking about food anymore.  Or homework. Or anything. “Yeah,” he says.  “Of course.”

 

***

 

Peter stands in front of the mirrored closet door in his room at the Avengers compound.  He raises his mask to pull it over his head. 

 

“What the…  Fuck.” 

 

He pauses and turns to look over his shoulder.  Mr. Stark stands in the hallway just outside the bedroom.

 

“What?” 

 

“Kid…”  Tony passes his hand over his mouth, then embeds his fingers in his goatee.  “We have to talk.”

 

“Right now?  I thought we had a mission.”  Peter straightens his suit’s high neckline.  He shakes out his mask and prepares to put it on.  __

 

_ Can we delay this?   _

 

“There’s a mission,” Tony says.  He crosses the room. “You... you can’t go.  Not like that.” 

 

“But I’m ready.  I’m good.” Peter has an idea where this is going.  And it’s nowhere near good. 

 

_ Why is this coming up now? _

 

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”  Mr. Stark’s hand closes around Peter’s mask, gently yanking it out of his grip.

 

_ Don’t panic.  You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re so much faster.  Sleeker. Better than you were on the last mission. _

 

But just standing there under Mr. Stark’s gaze makes his knees quake.  Peter clenches his hands into fists behind his back. “I’m ok,” he says.

 

“No, you’re not.  You’re all bones under that spandex.  Sit down.” Tony points to the bed. “We’re airing this out right now.”

 

Peter stands his ground.  “But—the mission. I thought you said you needed me.”

 

Tony takes a breath and points threateningly at Peter’s chest.  “We do need you. We need...to not lose you.” He presses his lips together as if he’s collecting himself.  “Fucking sit down. Before you fall over.”

 

Peter perches on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap.  He presses the tips of his gloved fingers into his palm, imagining welts forming even though it’s impossible to generate enough pressure through the fabric.

 

Mr. Stark sits beside him, like a dad about to broach an awkward topic.  It should be comforting since it’s probably the closest Peter will ever get to this kind of thing.  But the only emotion he can identify is panic.

 

“Kid.  Peter. What are you doing to yourself?”

 

“Nothing,” Peter mumbles.  “I’m fine.”

 

“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine,” Tony says.  “I’ll call Pepper. Or May. You want me to do that?” Peter can’t tell whether or not it’s a threat.

 

“No, I...We’ve got stuff to do…”  

 

_ We’ll go on the mission.  This will fall off the radar.  It’ll be ok… _

 

“Forget about it.  Nat’s already chasing them.  She can get it started. Maybe she’ll tap Banner or Hawkeye or somebody.  I don’t know. Right now I don’t really care.”

 

“If there’s bad tech out there, if people are in danger, it’s your job to care,” Peter insists.  __

 

_ Come on, bite.  Please. _

 

“It’s my job to address crisis.  It’s also my job to protect this team.  And if I put you out there, you’re the one that’s going to be crushed.  Not some onlooker. I don’t care what kind of enhancements are in your suit.  They’re not going to protect you,” Tony says. “I’m trying to keep you alive here.”

 

The words are out of Peter’s mouth before he can stop them.  “What if I don’t care?” If he dies on a mission, at least that means he dies heroic.  Not stupid, cowardly,  _ weak _ ,  _ fat, gay _ …

 

“That’s the problem.  If you’re suicidal, your head’s not in the game.”  Tony pauses. “I know you’re starving yourself.”

 

_ No, you don’t.  You don't know anything.   _

 

“I’m fine.”  Peter knows the words can’t do any good at this point.  But he can’t stop himself from whispering them anyway.

 

“If that’s what you think…”  Tony shakes his head. “You’re a long way from fine.  You passed that milestone a long time ago.”

 

Peter lets out a frustrated huff.  He pushes his nail into the space between his pointer finger and thumb.  He imagines the sharpness he’d feel if he were able to split the flaky skin.  “You don’t have to pretend like you care,” he mumbles.

 

“Hey, I didn’t say anything because I respected your space,” Tony shoots back.  “I didn’t want to get all up in your business if you were into health food or trying to impress a chick or something.  Trust me, I know it was a mistake now.”

 

“Jesus fucking christ.”  Peter drops his elbows to his knees and his forehead into his hands.  “It’s not about girls. It’s never been about girls. I tried liking them, but it doesn’t work.  I…” He trails off. A clod of emotion threatens to break off in his throat.

 

There’s a beat of silence.  Then Tony takes a breath. “I’ve been making assumptions.  That’s my bad. But that’s not the point. I can’t watch you hurt yourself.  Not anymore.”

 

“I’m not hurting myself,” Peter murmurs.  “I deserve it. It’s better this way.”

 

“Watching you turn into a skeleton is not better.  For anyone involved.”

 

“You mean for you,” Peter snipes.  Tears are going to fall any moment now.  He squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

“Yeah, it fucking hurts me,” Tony says, his volume rising.  “But you haven’t been thinking about that, have you? No, it’s all about you and whatever the hell you’re trying to prove!”

 

Peter doesn’t fight the rising sobs.  They bring forth a throb in his forehead that’s almost as comforting as it is painful.  

 

_ It doesn’t matter what Mr. Stark thinks.  You’re doing the right thing. _

 

_ But he’s right.  He’s right. You’re terrible.  _

 

Peter jams the tips of his gloved fingers into his temples as hard as he can.  

 

_ You can take the pain.  You need it. _

 

“God, see, I don’t know how to do this,” Tony sighs.  He drops his hands to his knees with a slapping sound that cuts through Peter’s thought spiral and smarts as much as a physical blow.  “You have to stop.”

 

Stop crying?  Stop obsessing?  Stop counting calories?  It’s as if Tony’s yanking his entire life right out from under his feet.  There’s no ground left to stand on. There’s no force of gravity holding him to the earth.  “I can’t.”

 

“You have to.  Just stop. Please, kid, come on.”  Tony’s hand closes around Peter’s wrist.  “Your goddamn arms are shaking. Stop trying to punch holes in your skull.”

 

But Peter’s muscles are stuck in contraction.  He’s forgotten how to relax. Everything’s falling to pieces around him, and all he wants to do is hurt.  That’s all that makes sense. “I don’t...I can’t.”

 

“Peter.  Come on.”  Tony pulls Peter’s forearm, throwing him off balance.  Peter tips sideways, butting Mr. Stark in the chest with his shoulder.  Tony puts his arm around Peter’s back. His watch cuts into Peter’s prominent shoulder blade, and his fingers hook on Peter’s bicep.  “Just come’ere.”

 

Peter fights a convulsive sob, spraying a mist of spit into Tony’s t-shirt.  “No…”

 

“Calm down.”  Peter feels Tony’s voice as much as he hears it.  “Just...It’s gonna be fine.”

 

All Peter can do is cry.  He squeezes his fingers into the tightest fists he can manage, not sure if he’d rather hit Mr. Stark or himself.

 

After a minute of quiet struggling, Tony murmurs, “I’m gonna get Pepper, ok?”

 

“...No…”  He can barely get the word out between hitching breaths.

 

“We’re not done talking about this.  But right now you have to calm down.”  Tony sighs. “I don’t know how to do this anymore, kid.”

 

“Fuck you.”  All he knows how to do is hate.  Hate Mr. Stark. Hate Pepper. Hate himself.  

 

“Yeah,” Tony sighs.  “Don’t I know it.” He adjusts the pressure he’s exerting on Peter’s wrist.  “FRIDAY?”

 

“Sir?” The AI immediately responds.

 

“Get Pepper up here.  With, I don’t know, a glass of water.  A heating pad, something. Cause...we are not ok.”

 

***

 

Peter’s limp against Tony’s chest by the time Pepper shows up.  Her high heels click across the floor, and she sets a few items down on the bedside table before she sinks to her knees and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Peter?” she asks tentatively. 

 

The side of Peter’s face is sticky with tears.  He grimaces against the throbbing ache in his head before peeling away from the damp fabric of Mr. Stark’s shirt.  

 

It’s a mark of immense strength and respect that Pepper doesn’t ask what happened.  “Hey,” she says softly. “How about a sip of water?”

 

Water.  

 

_ Water is good.  No calories. Hydration reduces bloat.  _

 

_ Stop thinking about that.  Your world is coming to an end, and  _ that’s _ what brings you comfort?  You’re a fucking mess, and you’ll never be anything else.   _

 

Peter’s eyes well up again, and he forgets to nod.  

 

Tony lets go of him when he starts to claw his way upright, and Pepper hands over a glass.  “There you go. Alright. Little sips,” she encourages.

 

Holding things with his gloves is usually not a problem, but Peter’s trembling so hard he can barely bring the cup to his lips.  The moisture beading on the outside of the glass makes it feel loose in his grip. Peter takes a shaky sip and swallows, but the liquid stays in his throat, threatening to splash back up if he isn’t careful.  He’s not sure he has the energy to be careful anymore. 

 

“Ok.  Good.”  Pepper takes the glass back and offers Peter a Kleenex instead.  She wipes a tear track from his cheek with her thumb, but a second later another droplet falls in the same path.  Pepper gives a sympathetic smile and feels Peter’s forehead. She must think he’s sick.

 

And he is.  He’s been sick for a long time.  Longer than he wants to admit. The way he talks to himself, puts himself down.  It’s a dirty needle scratching at an already infected wound somewhere deep within him.  Probably in his soul.

 

_ You’re broken.  You’re worthless. _

 

_ Shut the fuck up.  Don’t listen to that. _

 

“Do you want to lie down for a while?” Pepper asks.  She pats Peter’s shoulder, lingering maybe a second too long on the protruding bone on the outside of the joint.  “Would that help?”

 

“I…”  Peter shakes his head a millimeter to each side.  There’s too much pressure in his throat to form words.  “I don’t know.”

 

“Why don’t we try that.”  She moves the pillows around, and Peter practically throws himself into them, curling onto his side and pushing his face down so hard he can barely breathe.  Tears seep into the pillowcase, and he tries to keep his body from wracking with sobs.

 

Tony’s weight shifts, sending a wave through the mattress.  He sighs, and the sound holds notes of sadness and frustration.  

 

“Do you want to go downstairs?” Pepper asks quietly.  “I can stay with him.”

 

“I, no, this is...my responsibility.”

 

“Tony, hey—”

 

“Do you not see him?  The kid needs to be in a goddamn hospital!  This is...this isn’t working. I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

 

“It’s ok,” Pepper soothes him.  “I know. But now isn’t the time.  Let’s get through tonight.”

 

“This is not ok,” Tony says.  

 

“I know,” Pepper whispers.  “I know. But that’s not what’s going to help.”

 

Tony stands up.  There’s a soft thump as he backs into the wall.  “I can’t let this go,” he says, his voice breaking  “I can’t let him go.” 

 

Pepper’s still crouched at the side of the bed.  She ghosts her fingers over Peter’s elbow. “I know,” she murmurs again.

 

Minutes pass, and Peter still can’t control the bursts of air and emotion jerking through his chest.  

 

_ It’s over.  You’re dead.  There’s nothing left. _

 

“If you want, we can talk about it,” Pepper offers.  She sounds muffled, like her face is pressed into the bedding as well.  “You can say whatever you want. I’ll listen.”

 

Peter shakes his head, scraping his nose across the pillowcase.  

 

“You don’t have to.  But you’re allowed to be sad or angry or whatever you’re feeling.  No one’s going to take that away from you.”

 

He’s getting care.  Attention. All the things that are supposed to make him feel safe and loved.  But Peter’s drowning. He just wants it all to end. For there to be assurance he won’t have to face any more of this when he opens his eyes.  Or better yet, to never even have to open his eyes again.

 

_ You wasted your entire life.  You haven’t done a single thing worth remembering.  You let innocent people die. You… _

 

Peter chokes over a sob, and it comes out in a disgusting snorting sound the pillow can’t absorb.

 

“Peter, it’s alright.  Whatever’s bothering you, it can’t hurt to let it out,” Pepper says.  Her comforting touch climbs up between his shoulder blades.

 

Peter breathes in the scent of laundry detergent.  “I didn’t even go to the fucking prom,” he cries. He doesn’t know if Mr. Stark or Pepper can understand his words.  

 

Pepper said it wouldn’t hurt.  But as soon as the garbled sentence is out, he only sinks deeper into the ocean of despair.  He can barely breathe through grief and embarrassment and pain and everything else. Over Harry, mostly.  

 

_ You’re stupid.  Your uncle’s dead, a girl you were supposed to be protecting is dead,  you’re dying, and all you can cry over is your stupid would’ve been boyfriend.  As if he’d even have wanted you… _

 

“Alright, keep breathing,” Pepper reminds him.  “You’re going to be ok. We’re going to make sure of that.”  

 

Peter’s brain is oxygen starved.  The pressure in his head builds into a throb that reaches from his forehead to his neck.  There’s nothing in his stomach but a tablespoon of water, but he feels it rising in his chest anyway.  He turns his face to the side to get a clear breath, but it doesn’t help the nauseous headache. 

 

“Peter, hey,” Pepper says.  She’s blurry, and it burns to keep his eyes open.  But her look of concern shows she’s reading his sick expression.

 

“I don’t feel good,” Peter forces out.  He’s going to throw up. But if he sits up, he’s going to pass out.  

 

He scrambles upright anyway and clamps his gloved hand over his mouth as he gags.  He doesn’t have enough to bring up to make a mess, but he’s desperate to keep it in if he can.  

 

“Ok, ok, here you go.”  Pepper hastens to get the trash can out from under the nightstand.  Peter retches up a meager stream of sourness once it’s under his face.  

 

“God, kid…” Tony sighs and shakes his head from where he’s seated on the floor against the wall.  Peter had forgotten about his presence. Now he’s all the more embarrassed.

 

“Come on, it’s not his fault,” Pepper says.  She pats Peter on the gack as he coughs. 

 

“Maybe not this time,” Tony mutters.  “You can’t do this.” The sound of his voice distorts, and Peter knows he’s fading.  

 

“Shhhh.”  Pepper might be shushing Tony.  Or maybe soothing the continued contractions in Peter’s throat.  She slips her arm behind Peter’s back and lowers him to the mattress.

 

“It’s going to be better tomorrow.  Maybe not a lot, but it’s going to be better than this.  I promise.” 

 

Peter shuts his eyes before his vision can fade to black.


	14. Epilogue: The past is gone, but something might be found to take its place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a good talk

 

Sun streams through the window when Peter opens his eyes.  It can’t have been a restful night. He’s almost too tired to sit up, and when he does, the ache in his head reignites.  Memories of last night come with it. 

 

“Shit.”  Peter bows forward to rest his forehead on his knees.  He’s still in his suit. He still feels sick. He’s still a failure.  

 

He rides a shaky breath and swallows a block of leftover emotion.  Pressure settles in his sinuses and brings the now familiar pain of dehydration.  Peter presses the release on his suit and peels it down to his waist. He doesn’t want to take it all the way off.  He doubts Mr. Stark will ever let him put it back on.

 

The glass of water he’d barely touched is on the bedside table.  A peace offering he hadn’t quite accepted. Peter eyes it and presses his lips together.  They’re dry. Almost chapped. He thinks of Pepper, kneeling at his bedside until he fell asleep.  He owes it to her to take a sip. 

 

He keeps the cup wrapped in his grip even after he drains it.  Peter looks through the clear glass at the distorted shapes of his legs under the quilt until a knock on the door startles him to attention.  The knob turns and Tony peers in. 

 

“Hey, kid,” he says, pushing the door all the way open.  

 

“Hey,” Peter whispers.  He barely has a voice at all.  

 

_ Please go away.  _

 

But at the same time, he craves the presence of another person.  Someone who knows, but will sit with him anyway. Stand by him. But it’s more than he deserves.

 

“Your, uh.  Your aunt’s on her way.”  Mr. Stark sits on the edge of the bed again.  “Pepper gave her a call.”

 

Peter sighs.  The sparse fragments of life left in him crumble and sink into the pit of his stomach.  

 

“I know this is tough, alright?”  Tony puts his hand on Peter’s knee.  “I...last night didn’t go right. And, uh.  I’m sorry.”

 

“No.  I’m sorry,” Peter says.  He holds the glass with one hand and bounces it against the bedding crumpled between his feet. 

 

_ I’m sorry this hurt you.  It was only supposed to hurt me. _

 

“You don’t have to sort through everything right now,” Tony says on a heavy exhale.  “Actually, it’s probably better if you don’t.” He takes the empty glass from Peter and wraps both hands around it.  “And I’m apologizing here, so I’d rather you didn’t interrupt me. Hm?” He gives Peter a sideways look and what might be the ghost of a smile.

 

Peter blinks at him.

 

“You’re...you’re real sick, you know.”

 

_ Don’t listen to him.   _

 

_ But...you have to know he’s right.   _

 

“Yeah…”  

 

“I should’ve said something sooner.”  It’s Tony’s turn to look through the bottom of the glass.

 

“‘S not your fault,” Peter murmurs.  “It wouldn’t’ve helped.”

 

“Maybe it wouldn’t’ve.”  Tony shrugs. “But I’ve been making you feel like you don’t matter.  And that’s my bad. That’s because I don’t know how to do this shit, not because I don’t care about you.”

 

“Oh.”  Peter doesn’t know how to respond.  He starts to dig his thumbnail into the side of his knuckle.

 

“If you’re gay, or if you have…”  he grapples with the words for a second.  “An eating disorder, or whatever kind of issues…  It doesn’t matter.” Tony shakes his head and tries again.  “I mean. Of course it matters. But none of it makes you a worse person.”  He grabs Peter’s clenched hand and gently forces his fingers apart. “None of it keeps me from caring about you.  It doesn’t keep Pepper from caring about you. Or May.”

 

“I don’t want to tell May,” Peter says, tears prickling to the corners of his eyes.

 

“Kid.”  Tony squeezes Peter’s hand.  “She knows. Even if you haven’t told her.  She loves you more than anybody. She just doesn’t know what to do either.”

 

Somehow he’ll have to let her know.  And Ned. MJ. Gwen. Harry… 

 

_ How the hell am I supposed to do that?  See, you’re just a burden. Dragging everybody down. _

 

Peter shuts his eyes to keep them from welling up any more.  “Doesn’t seem like anybody does.”

 

“We’re gonna figure it out,” Tony says.  “I have a lot of contacts. Doctors, whoever you need to see.  We can have them come here. May won’t have to pay for anything.”

 

_ Just people who are gonna tell you you’re sick.   _

 

_ But you are sick.  You are. And you don’t want to get better.  Not yet. _

 

“You...you’d do that?”  Peter asks.

 

“I spend a lot of money on stupid stuff,” Tony says.  “This would be...a welcome change. It’s not a lie when people say doing good makes you feel good.”

 

“I don’t want to be your charity case.  And I don’t know if I want to...If I can…” The tears begin to stream down Peter’s face, stealing his words along with his composure.  

 

“I know it’s gonna be hard.  But you’re gonna do fine. You’re gonna bounce right back,” Tony smiles, fully this time. “You’ll be back on the team before you know it.”

 

Peter scrubs the back of his hand across his cheeks.

 

Mr. Stark deposits the glass back on the bedside table and crosses to the dresser.  He opens a drawer and tosses Peter a pair of jeans. “I’ll trade ya.”

 

“You’re...taking the suit?” It’s not like he really expected anything different.  But it still makes him feel like a disappointment. 

 

“Mm, not really,” Tony muses.  “More like holding onto it for you.  Just for a little while.”

 

__END__

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding sequels/continuations (because I know you’re going to ask)... I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m going to be up to it. Writing this hit me a little harder than my dark stuff usually does. Best I can say is go ahead and ask, lay out the specific elements you’d like to see, and I’ll hit you back with a yes or no. I will absolutely not write anything set during inpatient ED treatment.


End file.
